


Temptation at the Gate

by DrusillaMaxima



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adultery, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dom/sub Undertones, Enemies, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hate Sex, Older Man/Younger Woman, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 37,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22010830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrusillaMaxima/pseuds/DrusillaMaxima
Summary: Hermione Granger absolutely loathes Lucius Malfoy.  The feeling is utterly mutual.  But when she's assigned to work at Malfoy Manor, she can't understand why that hate turns into an incandescent chemistry when she's around the Malfoy patriarch...Shameless and irredeemable smut.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Lucius Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy, Rodolphus Lestrange/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 232
Kudos: 552





	1. The Start

**Author's Note:**

> This is yet another explicit PWP-type story. There's also quite a bit of profanity in it. It also contains hate-shagging that has definite D/S overtones to it. Under eighteens and people who like a more modest story should NOT read on. It's probably really OOC. I don't know if I'll try to continue it (though I intended it to be a multi-chapter). But it's been sitting on my hard drive for two years, so I figured... what the hell. Don't say you weren't warned!

Marietta Edgecombe, Assistant Medical Rotation Assignment Clerk at St. Mungo's, rubbed her face. Years had passed, and Granger's scars remained upon her cheeks, scrawling out _snitch_ for whoever looked closely enough. Cosmetics, glamours - none seemed capable of covering the humiliating blemishes. It was her own personal cross to bear, and she had never forgiven Granger for it.

Now, however, she would not be the mocked, hideous assistant; the Senior Medical Rotation Assignment Clerk had called in sick with Doxy Flu, and now, Marietta was in charge.

She smirked as Lucius Malfoy waited at the counter. She'd made him wait - the arrogant prick - feigning searching through books just to waste his time.

"So, you need a medical assistant to look after your son, Draco?" she asked sweetly.

"As I've told you _thrice_ now, _Madam_ ," Lucius gritted back.

"Unfortunately Mr. Malfoy, we're very strapped for even qualified _volunteers_."

"I will pay," Lucius replied, "As I've mentioned multiple times now, Miss Edgecombe."

"It's not about _pay_ , Mister Malfoy." She tried to look affronted. "How _crude_. Obviously, we allocate resources on a _needs_ basis. And we simply don't have the resources to provide 24/7 care for your son, not when so many other war _heroes_ require assistance..."

Her eyes caught upon a name she had not expected, one that had been listed in the rolls of volunteers. _Hermione Jane Granger_.

The bitch who'd left her with these permanent scars.

The bitch who'd been trapped and tortured in Malfoy Manor.

It was _too perfect_.

"Perhaps we might have one volunteer who'd be appropriate. She's just finished a rotation elsewhere..." Marietta sighed deeply. "But it's really our only option, and I'm sure you'd decline, as she's neither pureblood nor a supporter of your... _Dark Lord_ , Mister Malfoy."

Malfoy's voice was clipped. "At this point, Miss... Edgecombe, I find I care little about the pedigree of the wizard who will save my son's life."

Marietta smirked. "Then we're agreed."

* * *

Hermione's eyes widened as she crossed the threshold into Malfoy Manor. She had never believed in fate, but she fleetingly wondered if there was some tie of destiny between herself and the Malfoy family. They kept - unwillingly and unwantedly - appearing in her life. She supposed she could have declined to go, but the better angels of her nature won out. She knew that Draco Malfoy had been seriously injured, and she also knew that there were no medical staff to spare on him.

If she refused to go, he might well die. She did not want that upon her conscience, no matter how much she loathed the Malfoy family.

A grizzled house-elf had greeted her at the door. One of its ears had a nasty chunk missing from it, and a scar lanced its face. Hermione was reminded of Crookshanks who - in his old age - had taken to fights with the local tomcats. It muttered something under its breath that sounded suspiciously like _filthy blood_.

"You be coming inside to meet Master."

Hermione tried to keep her voice cheerful. "Thank you. What's your name?"

He simply glared back at her before turning around and limping down a nearby corridor. Hermione pulled her jacket tight around her shoulders, feeling a chill in her bones at the thought of returning to _this place_.

Luckily, he did not bring her through any of the places she recognized - _the place I was tortured._ The reality of it cut through her thoughts, and she felt her heartbeat race and breathing quicken.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and willed away the urge to flee. Finally, after a rabbit warren of corridors, the house-elf stopped in front of a heavy oak door. The little house-elf swung it open, and then gestured with one hand for her to enter.

With trepidation, she peered inside. It appeared to be a small sitting room. A Victorian settee sat against one wall, next to a bookshelf and a sideboard laden with liquor bottles. A fire crackled in the grate. Two wingback chairs sat before it, their backs facing the door.

"Do not stand in the doorway, Miss Granger." Lucius Malfoy's silky voice reprimanded her. "You may go, Stultus."

"Stultus thanks Master," the house-elf murmured, shutting the door behind Hermione.

_Stultus_. Latin for Stupid. Hermione felt a shudder ripple through her. Suddenly, in the blazing-hot confines of this small, dark room, Hermione felt trapped.

"Sit."

One pale hand appeared from the side of the right-hand wingback chair, gesturing to the left-hand one. Swallowing and drawing up her courage, Hermione crossed the room and sat.

For the first time, she could see Lucius Malfoy. He was thinner than the last time she'd seen him, his cheekbones more pronounced and jawline more angular. His long, pale hair had been drawn back at his neck, and his gray eyes fixated upon the fire, never looking her way.

"I am surprised you agreed to come here, Miss Granger." He let out a disdainful sniff. "I suspected you would decline."

She felt her cheeks flame at the suggestion of cowardice. Her anger replaced any trepidation she had been feeling.

"I haven't any inclination to be here, Mister Malfoy." Her voice was icy. "But from what I gather, if I _don't,_ then there's a good chance your son might die."

"So there is," he replied. "Though I cannot imagine that would particularly concern you, given your shared history."

"Everyone deserves a second chance. I'd never condemn someone to die just because I disliked them, Mister Malfoy."

"Ah, but it's not _dislike_ , is it, Miss Granger? You loathe him, just as you loathe me, and just as I loathe you." His voice was still frighteningly soft and conversational. "I should have known your Gryffindor do-gooder sensibilities would win out over self-preservation."

She paused, her heartbeat quickening in fear at his words. When she finally replied, she forced her voice to stay calm. "Self-preservation? Why, do you plan to harm me, Mister Malfoy?"

He finally glanced her way. His eyes lingered upon the v-neck of her tank top, moving down to her denim skirt and pink sandals.

Finally, the edge of his lips flickered upward. "You wound me, Miss Granger. I thought I made it clear that I require your assistance... for my son's benefit. During your six hours here each day, I am not to be disturbed. I do not care to see you. I would rather pretend that you are not in my home. You will convey any messages through Stultus. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly." She felt heat rise in her cheeks under his cold, direct gaze. "I think we are _ad idem_ , Mister Malfoy."

"Oh, and one more thing. Henceforth, you will clothe yourself with a modicum of modesty when you attend my home." He waved his hand. "Stultus, show Miss Granger to Draco's room."

* * *

Hermione stared down at Draco Malfoy. Unexpectedly, she felt a pang at seeing him. His body had wasted away, his cheeks hollow, his collarbones knife-sharp beneath his exposed chest. His cornsilk hair fell onto his pillow like a halo, and in his unconscious state, his expression remained boyish and innocent.

"Oh, Malfoy," she muttered to herself, "even you don't deserve this, bastard as you were."

He'd been cursed. He'd simply been found comatose in an alleyway near Flourish and Blotts. It had probably been retaliatory, as dozens of attacks had been in the weeks after the war.

How naive they'd all been, thinking that Voldemort's defeat would usher in an idealistic new world.

Suddenly, Draco's body shuddered, and his breath sounded as if his lungs were full of water. At St. Mungo's, she'd been briefed on his condition, and knew his course of treatment. From his bedside table, she lifted a spray bottle filled with potion, and began to lightly mist his chest. She noted his knife-sharp rib bones protruding through his lily-white skin. Slowly, his breathing cleared. Using her wand, she cleansed her hands, and sat primly at the bedside.

The house-elf stood in the doorway, surveilling her. His large green eyes discomfited her - she could feel them on her, even with her back to him.

Six hours.

She glanced around, taking in the small room. It was impersonal - white walls, dark blue bedding, without the tchotchkes of everyday life. Doilies sat on the dresser and night-table. A pristine copy of _Merlin's Treatises_ lay atop one of the doilies. Cabinet paintings of flowers hung on the walls. It felt like a guest room, not the room of a twenty year old man.

Her mind began to wander to the Malfoys themselves. Draco had been cursed a month ago, and by all accounts, his parents had cared for him day and night. Why did Lucius now need assistance from the St. Mungo's volunteers? Where was Narcissa Malfoy?

Surely the situation must be dire, if Lucius was willing to welcome a Mudblood war hero into his home.

And how long did they expect Draco to be cared for? As Hermione understood it, the healers at St. Mungo's had no idea _what_ Draco had been cursed with. They'd been unable to do anything except fight the symptoms.

Her musings were interrupted by a shift on the bed. For a moment, she thought Draco might've woken up. But no, his muscles had gone rigid, and he lay on the bed like a board. She cringed, hoping that he could feel no pain.

There was no treatment for it but to let it pass. Hesitantly, she reached out and held Draco's hand. Maybe in some recess of his mind he might feel it, and get some comfort from it.

Stultus gasped. When Hermione glanced back at the house-elf, he was looking on with an expression of abject disgust.

"Do you have something to say?" she asked him sharply.

"Stultus has been told not to interfere." The house-elf's eyes narrowed. "Even if Stultus wants to. But Master will know all that goes on here, once he wakes up. Stultus will not wake up Master's first sleep in many days, even for... this."

Draco's limbs slackened, and Hermione withdrew her hand. Her mind kept moving, though, digesting what the house-elf had said. Why would Lucius go without sleep for days?

The remainder of the six hours passed by uneventfully. She did as she'd been trained, levitating Draco so he wouldn't get bed-sores, and administering charms and potions when his symptoms reappeared.

At the end of her shift, she found Lucius Malfoy at the doorway. His silky, cold voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Miss Granger. Leave now. You will return tomorrow promptly at eight."

* * *

The next day, in contravention of his order to _dress with a modicum of modesty_ , she had worn a short-sleeved sundress and sandals. To Malfoy, she was certain _modesty_ meant never showing a flash of uncovered ankle. The Malfoys had always seemed to dress as if readying themselves for holy orders.

It was, after all, a hot July day. And if Malfoy Senior didn't like it, that was just a silver lining.

Except that she _didn't_ see Malfoy, not the entire day. As she trudged out the front doors to her Apparition point, she didn't look back. She didn't see a curtain drawn, and a tall, blonde figure staring out at her retreating figure with a furrowed brow. Nor did she see him watching from that same window the second day, or the third.

* * *

On the fourth day at Malfoy Manor, she brought a few books from the Grimmauld Place library. She figured that while Draco slept, she could search for clues about what had happened. As she opened _Obscure Curses from Cymru's Past_ , she uncharacteristically found it difficult to concentrate on the book.

She yawned widely, and her eyes felt heavy. A dozen witches and wizards, including Hermione, now called Grimmauld Place their home. With the destruction left by the war, many were homeless. And Harry had opened his doors to them.

Practically, though, it meant endless noise and disruption from the other girls she shared a room with. Worse, Ron had vanished - without so much as a good-bye - on what Harry said was a top-secret Auror mission. Ron's presence, like Harry's, had always been an anchor. Now, not knowing where he'd gone or whether he was all right or why he'd left without so much as a farewell, she felt constantly on edge.

She hadn't slept well over the past few nights.

"Miss Granger!"

Lucius Malfoy's sharp voice interrupted her thoughts. She hadn't even noticed him walk into the doorway of Draco's small room. It was the first time she'd seen him in four days.

"Yes, Mister Malfoy?"

"Stultus told me you were falling asleep." His lip curled. "You are a risk to Draco. You aren't here to _nap_."

"I'm not falling asleep, I'm just yawning a lot. I don't sleep well lately - too many people to share a room with." She shrugged and set aside her book. "I've only got another hour, then I'll head home and finally rest."

"Spare me your domestic complaints, Miss Granger. They're of no consequence to me." He set a bottle down on the table. "Take it."

And as quickly as he appeared, he vanished. She sighed when she realized the bottle was nothing more than Pepper-Up. Though she was suspicious, Malfoy wouldn't be so stupid as to poison a war hero in his own home. When she realized Stultus was watching her, clearly waiting for her to swallow the potion, she uncorked it and swigged.

Though she hated to admit it, her energy immediately spike. She did not yawn for the rest of the time she spent with Draco.

She did not see Malfoy again before she left.

* * *

Nine days had passed; nine days of caring for an unchanging Draco Malfoy; nine days of Lucius Malfoy flitting past once in a while like a shadow. Now, however, she _had_ to speak with him.

Hermione shivered as she knocked at the door of Lucius's sitting room.

"What do you want, Miss Granger?"

"I need to speak to you." She tried to keep her voice strong.

"If you require something, ask Stultus," he replied through the door.

"I don't..." She sighed. "We need to discuss Draco's care now that I'm going."

There was a moment of silence, and suddenly the door swung open. She was momentarily startled by his appearance. He had abandoned his waistcoat and the jewelled clasp at his neck. A sliver of pale throat and collarbone, until now always covered by his high collars, now lay exposed. She could not tear her eyes away from his bobbing adam's apple. Hermione was suddenly reminded of a Victorian novel she'd read long ago, where the protagonist waxed lyrical about an erotically exposed lady's ankle.

Her face flamed, thinking of where her thoughts had strayed.

"Sit."

His voice brooked no argument. She obeyed, sitting once again in one of the wingback chairs. He settled in the one next to her.

"You are not leaving." It was a command, not a question.

She willed herself to answer confidently. "I'm afraid I have to. You see, I didn't plan on this being a long-term thing. The Ministry takes assistants for as long as you can spare the time."

"And you've decided you can 'no longer spare the time'? Is that it, Miss Granger?" he spat. "Convenience, then, trumps my son's health."

"That's unfair. I've got a _life_ , Mister Malfoy." Her face flamed. "I'm reading law. I've got my pupillage set up - I'm supposed to start in five days, and I haven't even got a flat yet in Cardiff."

"You're going to _Wales_ for a pupillage?" He snorted. "Ah, the centre of the Legal Wizarding World - _Cardiff_. But it's not possible now. You can't go, of course. You'll stay here."

"Do you think I want to be a nurse's aid for the rest of my life, Malfoy? I don't and I won't. I want to be a barrister, and defend peoples' rights before the Wizengamot."

"A predictably noble sentiment," he replied boredly. "You couldn't get a pupillage at any of the good law firms in London, could you?"

She flushed scarlet and didn't answer. He smirked at the unspoken confirmation.

"You _know_ how the legal world works in the Wizarding World, Miss Granger. It's a rather exclusive club, I'm afraid. Birth, connections - they matter. Being a war hero does not. How depressing to think you'll be relegated to landlord and tenant disputes in the suburbs of Cardiff for the rest of your life."

"I'm going to change that," she replied, trying and failing to sound confident.

"No you won't." Malfoy paused. "The Malfoy law firm is Shafiq Fawley - the oldest in Britain, I might add. Were you aware that they have never hired a muggleborn barrister before? They have a few half-bloods, but that's about as far as their tolerance goes - and a half-blood's never made partner."

She felt her fists balling and her heartbeat racing. She'd applied to Shafiq Fawley and hadn't even been extended an interview.

"Think of how many important cases they argue." He smirked. "I imagine it would be your dream to work there - defending unicorns and giants and werewolves and all the other riffraff of the Wizarding world."

"I haven't any desire to work somewhere that would view me as second rate," she replied tartly.

"How disappointing. Because I think with some encouragement, they might be open to hiring a mud-muggleborn."

"Lovely. Do a pupillage in a place that won't hire me back and won't give me decent work." She rolled her eyes. "Thanks, but no thanks."

"As a full barrister," he added. "Imagine, for a moment, being the first Muggleborn hired at Britain's oldest law firm."

For a moment she considered it. He caught it, too - his eyes lingered on hers, his dispassionate gaze shifting to something slightly triumphant.

"I don't think it's wise," she said, her voice wavering.

"Really, Miss Granger?" His voice grew frosty. "Imagine for a moment the alternative. A world where those who pull the strings actively work against you. Where, perhaps, you'll never get a single case. But, if you promise a few months' service here, to my son - which, I have noticed, you seem remarkably content with - you could be the first, the fastest muggleborn partner in Shafiq Fawley's history."

_What am I doing?_ The realization that he had deftly manipulated her, dangled a treat before her and she'd almost bitten, hit her like a blow. She was talking to _Malfoy_ \- a manipulative, malicious snake at the best of times. He was capable of violence and betrayal, as long as he got what he wanted. His promises, especially to a muggleborn, were worth nothing.

Her lip curled, and she stood. With finality, she said. "No."

"No?" he stood, moving to within inches of her, so that his greater height seemed to loom over her. "I can see you're tempted, Miss Granger. Don't lie."

She could smell the sweet armagnac on his breath and a distinctively masculine fragrance of sandalwood and coriander. Malfoy's presence seemed to overwhelm all of her senses - the heat from his nearness, his smell, his distinctive, intimidating appearance. She felt her heartbeat quicken, and she had to fight the urge to close her eyes and breathe in deeply.

"Not all temptations are worth the risk." Her voice sounded inexplicably weak to her own ears. "I'll let St. Mungo's know you need someone else. Good-evening, Mister Malfoy."

With that, she turned and fled.

* * *

Hermione stared down at the letter, and white-hot rage coursed through her. It had arrived less than three hours after leaving Malfoy Manor.

_Dear Miss Granger,_

_We appreciate your acceptance of a pupillage in our firm, but upon examination of our financial forecast for the upcoming year, we are no longer in a position to extend a contract to you. We apologize for any inconvenience and wish you the greatest success in your future endeavours._

_Sincerely,_

_Jocasta Pucey, Office Manager_

_Llewellyn Macmillan LLP, Cardiff_

Now, standing in front of the Manor's gate, she could barely keep herself from torching the place.

Stultus appeared at the gate.

"It is night. You come back tomorrow," he snapped.

"No. You tell Malfoy that I'm going to talk to him _right now_ even if I have to bloody break his door down!"

Stultus's eyes widened with what appeared to be genuine fear. For the first time since her arrival at the Manor, he simply ran off rather than growling, hissing or scowling at her.

He did not return; the gate swung open for her, and she stormed to the front door, fully intending to barge into his little sitting room and give him a piece of her mind.

Instead, he met her at the door.

"Good evening, Miss Granger," he said silkily. "What an unexpected surprise."

"Like hell it is!" she shouted. "You _fucking arsehole!_ "

His eyes fractionally widened, and he glanced right and left to the two neighbouring houses. She nearly laughed - they were a good half-kilometre away, at the nearest.

"Would you at least _attempt_ to behave like a civilized witch?" he hissed. "It's nearly midnight. What will the neighbours say?"

"Oh, that is fucking _rich_ , Malfoy," she continued ranting. "Torture? Murder? That's all right at Malfoy Manor, but you get one witch with a _legitimate grievance_ about your absolutely disgusting behaviour..."

"Be quiet," he snapped, his voice deadly. "If you want to behave like a madwoman, by all means. I'll contact the Aurors to remove you. Or, if you wish to discuss your... unfortunate predicament... you may follow me inside."

* * *

"You did this!" she shook the letter at him. "Are you going to deny it?"

"You insisted on your own selfishness," he replied, nonchalantly moving to the sideboard to uncork a decanter. "Stronger measures were required."

" _My_ selfishness! You'd ruin my entire future - everything I've worked for - just for your own convenience!"

His hands paused over the empty glass. "Convenience? Is that how you characterize my son's very life? How surprisingly... un-Gryffindor of you."

"Your son will be _fine_. St. Mungo's will send someone else within a day or two. I'd be off and happy in Cardiff, and never have to think of you again, and vice versa. I want you to fix this."

"No. St. Mungo's could, and likely would, send some incompetent. I find you repellent, Miss Granger, but even I cannot fault your... partiality for knowledge and technique."

Malfoy couldn't even _compliment_ her without an insult. And despite his excuse, he seemed to feel no regret whatsoever at ruining her legal career. She had found it hard enough to get one pupillage; now, after being rejected from the one in Cardiff, it would be an impossibility to find another.

"You really must be the most loathsome person I've ever met. Selfish. Immoral. Cruel," she paced around the room. "I hate you, Malfoy."

"What refreshing honesty," he replied, his voice laced with dark amusement. "You've been so disingenuously _polite_ since you arrived here."

"Fuck you. Fuck you, Malfoy. You think you can _make_ me stay here, just by cancelling my pupillage? I wouldn't step foot back in here if you _paid_ me." She scoffed and stared at him with the full force of her contempt. "You're revolting. No wonder Draco moved to London and your wife went - God knows where, but she's not here with you."

His expression of bored, amused contempt fell away instantly, replaced by a cold sneer. "My, my, what a vicious little bitch you are when you scratch the surface, Mudblood."

He crossed the room in three long strides, standing mere inches in front of her, boxing her into a corner of the room through his sheer size. His lip curled, and his hair hung loosely down around his face, framing his furrowed brow and cold gray eyes.

"Get the _fuck_ out of my way, Malfoy." Her anger had overcome any fear she might once have had of him. "I'm leaving, and I will _never_ , ever come near you again."

He did not move. In a move that she instantly realized was unwise, she lifted her hands to physically shove him out of the way. Lightning-fast, Malfoy gripped her wrists tightly. She tried to pull free, but it was futile. His strength far outmatched hers, and he easily held them tight. In one swift movement, he had pinned her arms against the wall. She was now sandwiched, her back against the wainscoting, and Lucius Malfoy standing inches in front of her, holding her in place.

"Let me _go_ , Malfoy," she hissed. "Or else."

"Or else what?" He cocked his head. "You struck me, Miss Granger. Self-defence is, I assure you, quite legal."

At that, she fell silent. Once again, she could smell his particular scent - spicy sandalwood, herbal coriander, the sweet apple armagnac on his breath. She realized that she no longer struggled against his hold. She could feel the heat from his body. She could feel the strange, heady mixture of her anger and something more primal that was borne from their argument and struggle.

She realized that her face glowed and her chest heaved beneath her thin cotton blouse. With every breath she sucked in, her nipples grazed the front of Malfoy's black waistcoat.

It was as if the air in the room had suddenly changed. She realized with sudden clarity that her vain struggle to free herself had sent arousal flaring through her core. His angry gaze had shifted into something more feral and predatory. He released one wrist, dragging his slender fingers down her upraised arm. As his fingernails grazed that sensitive spot at the crook of her elbow, she let out a gasp. When his hand lingered just above her breast, at the intersection of her shoulder and collarbone, she bit her lip and realized she held her breath in anticipation.

Finally, after what seemed an agonizingly long minute, he moved his hand down and palmed the soft flesh.

"A mudblood with a vicious tongue," he muttered, releasing her other wrist, and brushing his thumb over her bottom lip.

Her hands fell to her sides. She didn't touch him; she told herself that this sudden, white-hot attraction to him was absolute madness. It was _Lucius Malfoy_ , after all - the most awful, loathsome person she knew.

The hand working her breast began to pinch her nipple through the soft cotton, and she let out a whimper. His other hand slid, slowly, slowly downward, toward her thighs.

"Nooo," she murmured, her voice lacking any sort of conviction. "You can't do this."

His hands froze in place, and he surveyed her with a sneer.

"Don't try to make yourself feel better... to assuage your own guilt and responsibility... by feigning resistance, Miss Granger," he hissed, his breath hot on the shell of her ear. "I am incapable of physically harming another witch or wizard. Thank the fucking Wizengamot for that particular punishment. I will not - cannot - rape you. But I am more than capable of fucking you, despite our mutual loathing."

She shut her eyes, willing away the insistent throbbing in the pit of her stomach and the wetness smearing the insides of her thighs.

"But I hate you," she muttered.

"I know." His head dipped down to her neck and she felt hot breath, and then soft, warm tongue upon her pulse point. "I expect nothing less."

His hand finally slipped down to her thighs, instantly feeling the slippery wetness that had soaked her knickers. She could feel his lips pull into a smirk against her skin. As his fingers brushed over her damp thong, she felt a jolt through her body.

It propelled her, finally, into action. Her hands, which had lain motionless at her sides, slowly moved around his body, running over his wool waistcoat and down to his shapely arse. As she pulled his body tightly against her, she felt his hardness through the placket of his trousers. When she ground against it, he let out a soft, terse grunt. He flinched, as if his irritated by his own body's reaction.

He grabbed the hem of her dress and, in one swift movement, pulled it over her head. She stood, bathed in firelight, in only her pink lace panties and black brassiere. Malfoy stepped back a moment, surveying her with one eyebrow lifted in silent appreciation.

Unexpectedly, he grabbed her waist, turned her around, and pushed her so she was bent over the back of his wingback chair. She let out a startled mewl, but he took no heed. His hands went to her arse and back, kneading her flesh, and shoving up her bra to tweak her nipples, and then back down to yank down her knickers and spread her legs apart.

She could not see him from this angle, and could only stare forward into the fire. Her most intimate parts were now wantonly exposed. Malfoy was still, as far as she knew, fully clothed. She had no idea what he would do next.

Yet she felt more excitement, more anticipation, than she ever had in her life.

Suddenly, she heard fumbling and the sound of shifting cloth. Her breath caught in her throat as she felt a hot, blunt thickness brush against her lower lips. She felt him move into place between her lips, his wool-clad legs pressing against the back of her thighs, and his large hands keeping her hips immobile.

Suddenly, he thrust forward. There was no gentleness. No, this was something base and primal; he took her body for his own pleasure.

She flinched as he drove himself inside. Despite her wetness, his cock felt enormous. Her muscles seemed to resist against his size, but he did not give her time to adjust. His invasion was a heady mixture of pain and desire. Even fucking him was a battle.

Once he was fully sheathed, he let out a terse grunt. His hands gripped her hips tightly, and he used them to pull out, then thrust back in. The pain had eased, leaving only a feeling of being stretched to her limits. He began to piston into her in earnest now, holding her tightly, folded over his Victorian furniture so she could only lie under him, taking his cock. His wool-clad legs and abdomen rubbed roughly against her exposed skin.

His rhythm remained ruthless, his hips grinding her body into the chair with each thrust. It was the most unromantic, purely sexual fucking she had ever received. As she felt herself building to a crescendo, she whimpered and fumbled at the upholstery beneath her. She noticed that other than the occasional soft grunt, he made no noise; he kept to his powerful rhythm; his hands did not flail or grab for her body. It felt as if he wanted to stay in control.

She whimpered as he pinched a nipple hard enough to send a tweak of pain through her breast; she let out a shrill cry as she tumbled over the edge, her body clamping down hard on his member. Her body flailed under his hands, her hips twisting and shuddering backward to grind his cock even more deeply into her body.

Suddenly, his resolve seemed to shatter. He groaned as her body milked him, and his rhythm became faster, stilted, more jerking. His hands held firm to her hips, now yanking them to meet each thrust. Hermione could only lay limply, so exhausted was she from her peak. Her walls felt too sensitive to take much more of him. She did not have to worry; without warning, he let out a sharp shout, drove once more deeply within her, and his muscles tensed. Her insides flooded with warmth, and she nearly gasped at the thought that she was now drowning in Malfoy seed.

After a moment, she felt him pull out. She felt sore, exhausted, but magnificently sated.

Suddenly, though, she realized what she had done. _Lucius Malfoy_. Horror overcame her.

What now?

She heard him zipping his trousers as she slowly lifted herself up from the armchair. When she turned around, he was eyeing her with a peculiar expression, as if he had seen something both astonishing and distasteful. It reminded Hermione of the time her mother had discovered a six-legged turtle living in the goldfish pond.

Slowly, slowly, he reached into his pocket, and for a moment, she thought he would whip out his wand for a quick _Obliviate_. He did not. Silently, he handed her a snippet of cloth.

It was a handkerchief, she realized. She opened her mouth to speak, hoping to ask him questions - _Why this? What now? Will you keep silent?_

But it seemed Malfoy was in no mood to answer questions.

"Good evening, Miss Granger," he said, and abruptly left the room.

Hermione suddenly realized her own nakedness. Her knickers hung around her ankles. Her brassiere had been pushed up over her breasts, and now hung like a necklace around her throat. She readjusted both, cringing at the sight of thick white liquid sliding down the inside of her thigh. She slipped her dress back on, and tried to pat down her hair. _Now what?_ It was past midnight, and she was in the middle of bloody Wiltshire, sticky and filthy and exhausted.

She had been standing, thinking, staring into the fire for several minutes when a soft _pop_ interrupted her thoughts. Stultus approached her, his teeth bared in a disgusted sneer.

"Master has given Stultus orders. Stultus is to give Missy Mudblood this once you are decent." He held out a piece of paper.

She sighed and reached for whatever Malfoy had written. Instead, she felt a tug and a swirling sensation. Too late, she realized it was a portkey.


	2. Unwanted Guests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People generally avoid temptation... until they can't resist it. Lucius and Hermione put up very little resistance to more hetero hate-sex... with a vague sense of plot and a dash of profanity.

Hermione found herself gracelessly deposited approximately fifty metres from Grimmauld Place. Even now, past midnight, there were lights on in the windows. When she approached the door, the Auror on duty allowed her inside.

Harry Potter, in this uncertain post-war world, was under constant guard. So too were his friends, who now lived in his tightly-packed, constantly cacophonous house.

Hermione nearly laughed. Not five minutes ago, she had been wholly at the mercy of a former Death Eater, and there had been no Aurors to protect her; in fact, it had been the Ministry who had arranged this ludicrous _position_ as an assistant at Malfoy Manor.

She rubbed her temples, willing away her growing headache as she walked through the front door.

"Hermione!" Harry exclaimed, standing at the door to the foyer with a cup of tea in one hand. "It's half one! Are you all right? You look as if you've been dragged through a hedge."

She sighed, realizing that after a hard shagging, she must look an utter mess.

"I'll tell you about it tomorrow. I've had a very... strange... day." She sighed. "Any word from Ron?"

He shook his head. "Sorry, Hermione. I've asked Kingsley, and all he'll say is that it's a top secret mission for the Aurors and they don't know when he'll will be back."

"I just wish he'd said good-bye, or at least told one of us he'd be gone for a while." Hermione shook her head. "I mean, we've been constantly together for years, and to just vanish with no regard to how we'd worry..."

"I'm sure he didn't think of it that way," Harry replied gently.

"Yes, and that's the point." Hermione huffed. "Anyway, there's nothing we can do but wait. I'm off to have a good long soak, and then to bed. Good-night, Harry."

Normally, she'd hug him; now, sticky with sweat and come, she dared not go near him. Harry's brow furrowed with worry, and he took a step closer to her.

"Are you sure you're all right? You look - oh, I don't know. Right shagged out, as the saying goes."

She froze. After recovering, she pasted a smile on her lips. "I'm fine. It was a trying day - I was at Malfoy Manor. I'm too tired to talk about it now."

"Okay. When you do, I'm all ears." He smiled. "Good-night, Hermione."

She nodded, and hurried up the stairs and into the lav. Her cheeks blazed. She wondered, idly, if he could sense her guilt. Stripping off her cheap little sundress, she eyed the offending garment, then pointed her wand and banished it. As she stepped into the hot, bubble-crowned water, she felt an unfamiliar soreness between her legs, and stiffness where her back had been bent over the the chair.

 _I fucked Lucius Malfoy. I fucked a married, much older Death Eater. And I liked it_.

Her cheeks flushed with shame.

* * *

Hermione awoke to the sound of knocking. Bleary-eyed, she rolled over in bed. Her two roommates, the Patil twins, groaned and stuck their pillows over their heads.

"What is it?" Hermione mumbled through the door.

Seamus Finnegan replied, his voice terse. "Hermione, it's - ah - Lucius Malfoy is at the door and insists that he had a meeting with you at eight this morning, and you've missed it."

Hermione's eyes widened. After last night, she thought that she and Lucius Malfoy would never cross paths again. She'd made her feelings on his behaviour clear - he had ruined her career. Besides which, surely he wouldn't want to see the muggleborn he'd unwisely shagged in his living room after a massive, vitriolic row?

"What should I tell him?" Seamus asked. "The Aurors, obviously, won't let him in. Should I ask him what he wants to talk about?"

Hermione's eyes widened in alarm. "No! Tell him... erm... tell him I'll be down in a few minutes. I need to get dressed."

She felt Padma's incredulous stare upon her, but she didn't meet the other girl's gaze. Instead, Hermione scrabbled through the dresser, yanking out the most unattractive outfit she could find - a faded Backstreet Boys T-shirt, and a pair of torn jeans.

A moment later, she hurried down the stairs, praying that Lucius hadn't divulged any hint of their liaison the night before.

Harry, eyes narrowed and angry, stood in the foyer, surveying the doorway. " _What_ is _he_ doing here? I thought you were done at Malfoy Manor, and were on your way to Cardiff in a couple days."

"Has Miss Granger not told you of our... little exchange, yesterday?" Malfoy replied silkily through the open front door. "Miss Granger, you're late. And typically, etiquette provides that you invite one's guests into one's home and offer them refreshments, not leave them out on the doorstep in the rain for the better part of twenty minutes. How characteristically rude."

"I told you I'm not coming back, Malfoy," she gritted back. "And you're definitely not coming in for tea."

"I thought we had sorted this out last evening, when you attended at the Manor with that letter from Cardiff." He paused, eyeing Harry wolfishly. "Shall we include Potter in our discussion of last night's interlude?"

Harry's brow quirked with unspoken questions. Hermione's face flamed, and she shook her head. Harry trusted her enough not to pry.

"I'll be upstairs if you need me," he gritted out.

Hermione thought she caught a hint of disappointment in Malfoy's chiselled features.

"Come, Miss Granger. You will accompany me to the Manor forthwith."

She scoffed. "Why would I ever go with _you_ anywhere?"

His cornsilk eyebrow lifted in vague amusement. "Because if you don't, we will have the discussion of where you were and what you were doing last evening in full earshot of all your little friends and this... Auror who is here to guarantee your protection, if not your reputation."

Her face flamed. "Fine."

The Auror posted at the door shot her a dubious, sidelong glance, but she was too far into it now. Lucius Malfoy now held something over her, and he was going to blackmail and manipulate her to the maximum, it seemed.

With the outward appearance of chivalry, Malfoy reached for the crook of Hermione's arm with one leather-gloved hand. A moment later, she felt the stomach-twisting pull of Apparation. When she reappeared, she was at the gate to Malfoy Manor. Malfoy immediately released her arm, and stalked through the iron gate.

"Don't dawdle, Miss Granger," he snapped, not bothering to turn back to her.

In her cheap foam sandals, she hurried to catch up with him, as they entered the house, he gestured to the stairs. "You may attend to Draco now."

"I will _not_." Hermione's teeth gritted. "I thought my position was clear to you yesterday."

"That was before you..." His lip curled. "Threw yourself at my person."

"Threw myself at _you_! That's some revisionist history you have there, Malfoy. And I'm not sure why an ill-advised one night stand would change _anything_." She snorted. "I hate you Malfoy. If there's one thing that I've made _crystal_ clear, it's that."

His voice grew taut, his only outward sign of frustration. "You don't have any pupillage, Miss Granger. You don't have any job. You really have no alternative but to stay here and do as I say. I believe _I_ made that crystal clear."

She paced around the foyer. "Your arrogance never ceases to astound me, Malfoy. Your influence isn't all-encompassing. And I'm _not_ staying here, drudging away for like some overgrown house-elf, just because you say so. I'll go to America. I'll go to Australia. I'll go to the bloody North Pole!"

He stared at her a moment, surveying her as she paced back and forth. Hermione paused to scowl at him. It seemed he was taking measure of her, and she did not like the feeling one bit.

"Would you care to join me for a cup of tea, Miss Granger?" he asked. "And we will attempt to discuss this matter with some... maturity."

She blinked in confusion at his sudden about-face.

"What the hell are you on about, Malfoy?" she demanded.

"As I mentioned earlier, those of good breeding offer refreshments to those whom they wish to have a discussion with." He paused. "I'm not surprised that one of your background hasn't the foggiest clue about basic etiquette."

"I know _basic etiquette_!" she snapped, "I just think it's wasted on someone like _you!_ Fine, I'll have a cup of tea, and you can have at me about whatever little... plan you've got going."

* * *

Hermione felt entirely out of sorts. She had been escorted to what appeared to be a Regency orangerie, where an oak table had been set amongst the citrus trees. Hermione glanced up at them; the branches drooped under the weight of grapefruit, lemons and oranges. The rain splattered against the glass roof, and everything seemed washed in gray.

Malfoy pulled a chair out for her, a strangely incongruent act that left her feeling queasy and uncertain. He sat across the table from her, in stony silence. She watched as he carefully removed his gloves and set them on his lap.

There was no tea, and Hermione was about to snidely ask about it when Stultus appeared, bearing a silver tray laden with cups and a china teapot. Malfoy stared boredly out the nearest window as the elf arranged the teapot and cups, and topped one up with a slice of lemon and a single sugar cube. Stultus began to scamper off, baring his teeth at Hermione as he left.

"Stultus. You've forgotten Miss Granger's tea." Malfoy paused. "What is your preference, Miss Granger? Light or black? Lemon or sweet?"

She swallowed, feeling suddenly dry-mouthed under his poised, bland gaze. "Milk, please."

Stultus, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like _filthy mudblood_ , poured a cup out, then topped it with milk. With one last disdainful sneer, he scampered out.

"Perhaps you'll now be capable of speaking like an adult." Malfoy lifted the cup to his lips and took a delicate sip. "I have made you a more than generous offer, Miss Granger."

"I wasn't aware of an _offer,_ Malfoy. I gathered that your offer was conditional on me turning down my pupillage." She glowered into her teacup. "A choice which you ultimately made _for_ me."

"I never said I'd retracted my offer, Miss Granger. It would be... mutually agreeable, I assure you." He stirred his cup, and took another sip. "I'd pay you for your services here."

She furrowed her brow in confusion. "We _are_ talking about nursing Draco, aren't we?"

His eyes widened. "Obviously. Do not presume that what occurred yesterday will be... repeated."

"Thank God," she muttered.

"A change of tune indeed, Miss Granger." His lip curled. "Back to the matter at hand. The offer still stands. You care for Draco each day. The healers at St. Mungo's have told me that we shall know his... outcome... within four months. That is how long I would bind you. And come next pupillage term you would be accepted with open arms to Shafiq Fawley as their newest bright star."

"Why would I allow you to manipulate me?" she hissed, slamming down her cup.

"Don't be so juvenile. Everyone manipulates. Simply because I am open about it shouldn't prevent you from accepting a proposition that is far beyond what you could accomplish on your own."

She let his words sink in. It was true; she could _not_ join the ranks of Britain's finest law firms without his assistance. Still, the thought that he could manipulate her like a marionette made her feel red-hot frustration. He _could_ manipulate her. His influence _was_ all-encompassing. She could do little in retaliation.

Finally, she spoke. "What I don't understand is why you're so insistent on _me._ You could hire a proper medi-witch or medi-wizard. I'm not even trained in medicine. I'm a ridiculous choice - I'm becoming a barrister, for goodness' sake."

Malfoy set his now-empty cup aside and lifted one eyebrow. "Though I find your heritage distasteful, I am objective enough to accept that you have a superior intellect. The medical staff at St. Mungo's have told me Draco's condition is unidentifiable. Perhaps you shall prove them incorrect."

Hermione's eyebrow lifted. He wanted her for her _brains_? Now that was truly startling. She felt her frustration ebb away at the backhanded compliment.

"So that's all? You're hoping that I might cure your son. Even if I don't, I still get a job at your law firm?"

"Indeed."

She frowned. "I need to think about it. And even if I accepted, I'd want a contract. A written, magical contract."

His eyes brightened; he knew that he'd already won, and that was _almost_ enough to make Hermione turn it down. The pragmatist in her won out, though, and she kept silent.

"Not so naive as you let on, hmm? You'll have it forthwith." He paused. "If that's all, we have nothing else to discuss, and you are free to relieve Stultus of his supervision of Draco. I have little faith in the medical abilities of a house-elf, especially one originally owned by Bellatrix."

He stood.

"Wait." She felt her heartbeat start racing, but they needed to discuss the night before. "What happened last night..."

He interrupted her quickly. "Shall not be repeated. I imagine we are agreement that it was... foolish."

"I haven't taken a potion," she said awkwardly. "Are you on one?"

A fleeting moment of confusion passed over his features before he understood her meaning.

"Contraception." His lip curled. "How very... muggleborn of you."

"Forethought is for the muggleborn?" She raised an eyebrow. "How interesting, although I'm afraid I have no desire to mother a Malfoy bastard, thank you very much. If you don't have a potion, I'll need to go out to get one."

"The very idea... fills me with revulsion." He shuddered in disgust. "Rest assured, the Sacred Twenty Eight cannot have children without the assistance of magic."

She rolled her eyes at the elitist term - the twenty eight most pureblooded of pureblood families in Britain.

"Perhaps that's just because of all the inbreeding, Mister Malfoy," she replied sweetly.

"Spare me your invective." He frowned. "If you'll excuse me."

With that, he stalked out. Hermione spent a languid ten minutes finishing the pot of orange pekoe. It was, after all, very good tea. Why let it go to waste?

* * *

She did not see him, nor his house-elf, again that day. When she returned to Grimmauld Place that afternoon, Harry sat in the kitchen, his brow furrowed.

"Do you want to tell me what's going on with you and Malfoy?" he asked over his cup of chamomile. "Because that was just bizarre this morning. I was nearly ready to send an Auror over to Malfoy's place."

She sighed and sat down beside him. He poured her a mug of tea, then slid a wax-sealed parchment across the table.

"Admittedly, the fact that this arrived for you not thirty minutes after you left made me a little suspicious, too. I mean, it's got Malfoy's seal on it. But you were already at his house, as far as we all knew..." Harry glared down at the black wax seal. "He's up to no good."

She smiled wryly. "Obviously. It's Malfoy."

Hermione brought the mug to her lips, and was struck by the difference between their cheap Punjana and whatever Malfoy had served to her earlier. Malfoy truly lived in another sort of realm, one where it was perfectly normal to drink the finest tea from bone-china cups. A realm where people like her were like pawns on a chessboard, easily moved to and fro at will.

Harry's eyes lingered on the unopened letter, and he practically hummed with curiosity. She cracked open the seal. After skimming it to make sure it contained no references to her ill-advised one-night stand, she tossed it across the table so Harry could read it.

"He's arranged a pupillage for you? And a job at Malfoy Manor? Why?" Harry's eyes widened. "What about Cardiff?"

She sighed, and decided to give him an abbreviated version for now. "They rescinded their offer. Malfoy asked if I'd stay on looking after Draco for a while, and in return, he'd get me a law pupillage with Shafiq Fawley."

Harry shook his head. "Why? There's something not quite adding up. Besides, you'll have to see Malfoy. How could you tolerate him for four months?"

"He generally leaves me alone." Hermione felt herself blush at the half-lie. "And I think he hired me so I could research Draco's condition."

"The pay isn't the best, but I suppose it's only for four months." He looked up from the parchment. "You want me to run it by my solicitor?"

"Would you? I want to sign it before I change my mind."

Harry's eyes widened in alarm. "If you're worried about taking the job, _don't_ , Hermione..."

She stared into her cup, her mind suddenly flooded with memories of a wingback chair, of warm hands on her hips, of Malfoy sunk deep within her. Her cheeks flamed.

"I know there's something you're not telling me." He sighed. "I'll listen if and when you decide to talk. Until then - be careful with him."

She couldn't promise to be careful. She wasn't _that_ dishonest.

* * *

Three days had passed, and Lucius Malfoy still felt sick at the thought of the Granger girl. He had thought of little else since that repulsive rutting session in his study. His rational mind felt the urge to Scourgify himself repeatedly; yet some uncontrollable and animalistic portion of his mind found pleasure in replaying images of their coupling.

It had occurred to him, on more than one occasion, that these might be the first signs of the madness that struck down so many Purebloods. Surely there could be no other explanation? He had fucked the girl, immediately realized his mistake and sent her on her way - and in the morning, had immediately sought her out again and invited her into his home _every single day for the next four months_.

He tried to rationalize it as for Draco's benefit. But he was not _so_ self-deluded. Some part of him _wanted_ her here, in his orbit, under his control and surveillance. He'd forced himself to stay away from her, even as her lilac perfume lingered in the air and her footsteps echoed down the corridors.

Even now, he felt the urge to follow her down the hallway and to use the hidden peepholes and corners of the Manor to spy on her as she cared for Draco. He did not indulge the urge, suspecting that his rational mind might not win out over his baser desires.

Stultus appeared in his study. The ill-tempered house-elf had been even more horribly behaved over the past three days. The creature's eyes narrowed with barely-concealed contempt every time he watched Lucius. To be judged by a house-elf - it was humiliating.

"Master." The elf's voice was curt, and he held out a piece of wax-sealed parchment in tiny gray hands. "Owl came."

With one smooth movement, Lucius took the letter, cracked the seal, and unfurled the parchment.

He sighed. It seemed he would _have_ to leave the safe confines of his study. Still, the girl was usually gone by this time of the day.

Tying his cravat and buttoning his waistcoat (after all, one never knew when visitors might arrive), he walked into the corridor - only to come face to face with Granger.

She looked just as unkempt as ever - hair unstyled, face bare, yawning widely without covering her gaping mouth. Yet still she looked innocent, beautiful, in a white shift and pale braided-leather thong shoes.

"Oh!" Her eyes widened to doe-like proportions. "I wasn't expecting... that is, how do you do, Sir?"

He felt a flush of heat to his groin at being called _Sir_ , and immediately chastised himself for his lecherous reaction. Still, he did not allow her to see how flustered she made him, because he responded quickly and cordially.

"I am well, Miss Granger. I hope Draco's care has not... overtaxed you."

"No!" Her words tumbled nervously out of her. "Of course not. It's just the heat - I'm too used to the air con - but Harry always has a cold drink chilled for me when I get back home."

He eyed her more carefully now, noting the sheen of sweat across her cheeks and nose; the wispy strands of hair escaped from around her temples; her heavily-lidded gaze.

When he spoke, his voice was unnaturally quiet. "Are you thirsty, Miss Granger?"

Perhaps she had also sensed the unintended, sultry undertone to his question, because her eyes widened and she seemed frozen where she stood. He was suddenly, acutely aware that he stood too close to her, his face just a few inches away from hers. Her tongue darted out, licking her lips, leaving them shiny and pink.

Quickly, he managed to compose himself.

"If you require something to drink, you need only ask."

"But your house-elf said I wasn't..." Her brow furrowed and her voice trailed off.

"What did _my house elf_ say?"

His eyes glanced coolly toward Stultus. The house-elf looked particularly ashamed, scuffing its feet on the ground and refusing to meet his gaze.

"He said I wasn't to leave the room or touch anything in the house except for the chair and the medical supplies." She frowned at the elf. "On your order."

He felt a flicker of rage course through him, but it revealed itself only in his fingers curling. The _reason_ for the anger, on the other hand, baffled him. Logically, he should be _pleased_ that the girl hadn't tainted his home and belongings. But he wasn't. A house-elf had not only disrespected him to his face, but had usurped his authority. Granger probably now viewed him as a petty, vengeful former lover.

 _Lover_. He scoffed internally at his own foolish choice of words. But then, was there a word for a one-time rutting session with one's enemy?

"I can assure you, I have never given any such order." He stared at Stultus until the creature flinched. "Would you care for a drink before you go, Miss Granger?"

He could sense her hesitation, and he felt an unexpected desire to make amends - however small - for the perceived inhospitable behaviour. He also realized the dissonance at worrying about hospitality when the girl had been tortured in his formal dining hall.

"I'm not sure... especially after, erm, last week..." Her face flushed prettily.

"I assure you, Miss Granger, that I intend to behave civilly for the next four months. It's to everyone's benefit, wouldn't you agree?" He paused. "Surely you'd give me an opportunity to make amends for Stultus's abhorrent behaviour."

He knew that Granger could never give up the chance to bury the hatchet. She was _always_ harping on in the media about mending fences and rebuilding and all that feel-good liberal nonsense. Still, he _did_ want to show her that he wasn't some vindictive arsehole. It might've been decades since he'd been involved with a woman other than Narcissa, but he'd always prided himself on comporting himself as a gentleman.

"I suppose just for a few minutes wouldn't hurt. It's still a hot and long walk to get to the floo," she murmured.

He turned back toward his study. "Follow me, if you would, Miss Granger."

He could hear her shoes clacking against the floor as she followed. _So eager to obey;_ he felt an unwelcome jolt of arousal at the thought.

* * *

Inwardly, he knew he was self-deluding. His mind kept listing perfectly reasonable excuses for why he'd brought Granger back to his study. _It's set with cooling charms; that's where I keep my better drink; it's close by._

Yet he knew it had been a foolish choice when he saw her standing in the doorway, eyes nervous and wide, the sunlight silhouetting her body through her dress's white fabric.

His arousal returned full force as he admired her shapely hourglass figure.

"Ah... what about Draco?"

"Stultus will inform me if he requires assistance. After all, everyone needs release..." He nearly smirked at her high blush, "From their obligations once in awhile, hmm?"

"You're baiting me," she said matter-of-factly.

"Perhaps." He paused. "You colour easily when you're embarrassed, Miss Granger. It's rather..."

He stopped himself before he finished, realizing how foolish he would sound to tell her he found it attractive. Still, she must have guessed what he was thinking, as her cheeks grew even more rosy and her eyes fell to the floor like a virginal ingenue.

Suddenly, he wondered how many men she had taken to her bed. He hadn't been her first, but at her unease, he had begun to suspect that she was relatively inexperienced. The thought pleased him.

"Come inside, Miss Granger, and take the drink with me as you promised."

Again she obeyed, wandering into the small study and avoiding eye contact with him. He watched her movements while he began to pour himself a measure of armagnac. In the bright daylight streaming in, she seemed to be taking in the details less discernible at night - the hand-painted Chinoiserie wallpaper; the walnut wainscoting; the lozenge-paned window in the corner of the room.

"Will you take armagnac?"

"A bit strong for three thirty, isn't it?" She lifted an eyebrow at the decanter.

"Ah, so you're one that believes life's pleasures should be relegated to the cover of darkness."

He handed her the drink, and he nearly snorted at how her eyes darted about, looking toward anything but him. At first, he'd thought she'd been embarrassed by memories of their earlier tryst. Now, he wondered if it were less complicated. The thought that perhaps she was attracted to him sent a jolt to his groin, and he pressed his glass to his lips from audibly sighing at the thought.

Her eye had been caught by a painting hanging over the fireplace. How _coincidental_ , he thought, moving to stand behind her.

"You're fond of portraiture, Miss Granger?"

"Not terribly. I mean, I've gone to the National Portrait Gallery and the Dulwich... I suppose you don't even know what those are." She lapsed into silence, staring up at the canvas for a moment. "It's very beautiful, though. It reminds me of Boldini's work. Why doesn't it move?"

He moved closer to her, breathing in the fragrance of lilac perfume mixed with the sweetness of a woman's natural scent. Tendrils of hair glowed like a halo around her head, and he fought the urge to tuck it behind her ear. He felt a stirring beneath his trousers at the slim, tanned legs exposed by her short hemline, legs he could bend back under his arms as he took her on the sofa...

He kept his voice low when he answered, worried how ragged his voice might sound. "I haven't the foggiest. It never has. I suppose it's defective, though it's charming in its own way."

"One of the Victorian Malfoys?" she asked, sipping at the armagnac.

"Hardly. She was a well-known _demimondaine_ whom my grandfather supposedly frequented." He lifted an eyebrow at her squeak of surprise. "So as you can imagine, its risque subject matter means it cannot be displayed in the public areas of the house. Wouldn't want visitors to get the wrong idea."

" _I'm_ here." She glanced backward at him for the first time, and seemed startled by his nearness.

"Yes, and I'm still questioning myself why _you_ are the first visitor to enter my private study." He paused. "A not unwelcome surprise, I suppose."

He could see the sheen of sweat still on her forehead, the tiny lick of her lips, her wide pupils as she stared up at him, the working of her throat muscles as she swallowed. His heartbeat quickened; despite the foolishness of it, he wanted her again. _Now, here._

"Mister Malfoy." Her voice was quiet and flat. "Are you trying to... erm... have a _repeat_?"

"Not unless you're willing," he replied, setting aside his drink and stepping closer to her. "I find you attractive. I am not cowardly enough to deny it."

She gulped her drink nervously. "This is such a terrible idea."

"Definitely." He lifted a hand to take her drink and set it aside. "Nothing we do will leave this room. Not from me. Nor you."

She swallowed again, nodding mutely. For once, he allowed his cool mask to drop, smirking triumphantly as he closed the gap between them. His hands went to her waist, pulling up her dress so he could see her knickers. These ones were pale pink gingham with small bows; girlish and innocent. He let out a groan at the sight of them and slid his hands upward to palm her breasts. They too were prettily covered in a pink lace brassiere. He felt her first hesitant touches, jerkily working at his cravat until the knot gave and the silk dangled from his neck. Her hands worked next at the waistcoat, small fingers pulling apart the wool to reveal his pristine, white dress shirt. Her hands skimmed over the fabric, and he jerked in pleasure as he felt her hands skim over his nipples, the fabric scraping at the sensitive skin.

He suddenly did not want her to see him fully naked; it would give her too much, leave him too vulnerable. He wanted her, naked and prostrate and insensible to _his_ touch, not the other way around.

Gently, he removed her hands from him. Her heavy lids reflected confusion, but she didn't ask why; she simply stood - so obedient - at his unspoken command. He wanted her utterly naked - such a beautiful body, wholly at his mercy, to do with as he wished. His cock jerked at the thought. He lifted the dress over her head and tossed it aside. Next went the brassiere, the snaps easily opened, her breasts perky and hard-nippled as they were freed. He left the pretty knickers on for now. His head bobbed down, sucking one nipple into his mouth; it tasted salty-sweet and like the girl's natural scent.

She cried out; when he nipped at it with his teeth, she nearly collapsed. He stood, feeling uncomfortable at how far he had to bend over to reach her breasts. Instead, his hand twisted and yanked at them, hard enough that he was sure she felt pain. Still, she did not stop crying out and moaning in pleasure, her head rolled back. When he lowered his head to nip at her pulse point, her hips began to thrust against the tented placket of his trousers.

The stimulation was too much, and for a moment he panicked at the thought he would lose control and release in his undergarments, like some uncontrolled fourth-year.

He removed his hands and his mouth and stepped backward. Her eyes fluttered open, heavy and dilated with lust.

"Get onto the bench," he commanded. "All fours."

Eager to please, she nodded and climbed onto the low, upholstered bench next to his bar set. She had done exactly as he asked, and her arse was now stuck in the air, presented to him, her breasts dangling downward and sure to swing beautifully as he fucked her. He let out a hiss of pleasure and moved behind her. His hands trembled as he worked his placket. When his cock finally sprung free from the fabric, he nearly sighed with relief.

"Please, Malfoy," he heard her whimper.

"Please what?" he asked, his cock achingly hard at the thought of her next words.

"Please... please fuck me, Malfoy."

He obliged; just as last time, her body was vise-tight, even sopping wet. She tensed as he thrust into her, and he knew she must have felt pain. Still, he could not stop himself. The girl had turned him into a raging animal, unable to control himself, unable to see reason. It was only the fact that _he_ dominated her that allowed him to rationalize it as any way acceptable. With that thought in mind, as he watched his rod move in and out of her, he reached down and smacked her right arse-cheek, leaving a blossom of pink across the white skin.

He wondered, fleetingly, if she would take offence; if she would make him stop, or the Wizengamot charm would activate and he would be sent to Azkaban.

It seemed not. She let out a high-pitched, encouraging wail at the crack of his hand against her flesh. He repeated the action, carefully calculated to be harder each time, until her skin glowed pink and her voice had devolved into a low, constant moan. Finally, one final smack in tandem with a particularly deep thrust catalyzed her peak. She stilled, back arching, a cry like a cat in heat escaping her throat. Her inner walls clamped against his cock, and he continued to thrust, enjoying her chokingly-tight grip. When her screams died out, and her twisting ceased, she went limp. He had not had his pleasure yet, and he used his arm around her waist to hold her up and keep pounding into her.

She whimpered, momentarily, in discomfort, but she had no need to worry. With one last hard thrust, Lucius pressed deeply into her body and lightning overtook all his senses. He did not try to hold back his roar of pleasure this time as he spent himself in her body.

When his senses cleared, he felt a flicker of uncharacteristic guilt. The girl looked utterly drained, her small form collapsed face-down on the bench, her breathing ragged, her skin misted with sweat and legs smeared with their mixed fluids.

 _Magnificent_. The thought came unbidden, along with the gentle sweep of his hand down her lower back as he slipped out from her.

She rolled over, eyes wide with surprise. He swallowed his discomfort under her gaze, and began to carefully button his trousers and waistcoat. As the high of their coupling ebbed away, Lucius felt a lingering sense of peril.

This had _not_ been his intention. He had wanted to assure the girl that he was capable of civility, nothing more. He felt distaste roiling inside of him, but he was not so stupid as to blame _her_ for his poor self-control.

Her soft voice interrupted his maudlin thoughts. "That was... wonderful."

Lucius felt a strange, anxious pressure in his belly at her unexpected words and small smile.

"Come with me, Miss Granger."

He offered her his hand. Her eyes widened, but she took it, allowing him to help her onto her shaky legs. Immediately, he dropped her hand. He led her out, into the corridor, and down three doors. Inwardly he nearly laughed at the absurdity - he was leading his naked, muggleborn, same-age-as-his-son paramour through the hallways of his ancestral home.

"It's a lavatory." He gestured to the door. "I'll have your... things... brought here for when you finish your ablutions."

After a pause, she nodded. "Thank you."

The sense of peril that had been pooling within him only increased the longer he was with her. He felt the urge to flee, and stepped backward.

Before turning to rush away, he muttered, "Good evening, Miss Granger."


	3. The Penalty for Spying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione's eavesdropping leads to unexpected anger, honesty, and smut. Possibly a bit dubcon, mentioned only as a warning for those who have a particular sensitivity to that sort of explicit content.

Hermione stared up at Grimmauld Place, feeling as if she had to compose herself before she went inside. She'd just fucked Lucius Malfoy, spent an hour in his lavatory scrubbing up with some bottle of masculine-smelling Italian soap, and then exited to find yet another portkey sitting underneath her cleansed-and-folded clothing.

And then, the portkey itself - with Malfoy's harsh, cut-like strokes that had written:

_Miss Granger,_

_Please do not fail to return tomorrow. If you recall, we are both bound by contractual obligations that are impervious to impulsive behaviour._

_Yours most sincerely,_

_L.M._

She sighed. Was that tongue-in-cheek humour? Or genuine regret? Was Malfoy even capable of having a laugh? What was going through Malfoy's head? He seemed like a see-saw, one moment cold and dominating, the next almost thoughtful.

She sighed. These thoughts were pointless. She wasn't in a _relationship_ with Malfoy. They weren't going to encounter one other for more than four months, at most. She didn't need to know his motivations. She just needed to be wiser the next time she saw him. He was _married_. He was in his thirties, perhaps even _forties_. He was a hateful bigot, perhaps sociopathic, the father of her schoolmate, and - most recently - her employer.

When she stepped inside Harry's house, she was met by the usual cacophony of voices.

"Oi, Hermione, you're back late! Padma's making supper tonight so you'll be happy you came back in time - she's making some sort of chicken curry. Smells bloody amazing."

"Lord, Hermione, what are you _wearing?_ You smell like a gent's cologne shop."

"How big of an arse was Malfoy today? You look like you could do with some sleep right now."

Harry eyed her with silent worry as she muttered apologies and retreated immediately to her room.

* * *

Hermione yawned as she sat next to Draco. His condition had not improved, though through various charms, salves and potions, he'd remained amongst the living. With little else to do, she had drawn a massive chart on a sheet of parchment, marking down Draco's symptoms and comparing them to known hexes. So far, she'd discovered little; her knowledge of hexes was not extensive, and most libraries avoided purchasing books that detailed the most sordid of dark magic. She flipped through _Advanced Defence Against Dark Arts: A Primer for Law Enforcement_ , mentally cursing its simplistic approach.

If Draco's condition was due to obscure dark magic, it could take months, if not years, to identify it.

Her mind drifted back to Malfoy Senior, and their frenzied coupling the afternoon before. He hadn't been around when she arrived this morning - though that didn't surprise her. Last time they'd slept together, he'd mostly avoided her for days afterward.

Perhaps he felt shame. Or perhaps he really _was_ a sociopath, and felt nothing.

"How goes your research, Miss Granger?"

She nearly fell off her chair in surprise at the sound of his voice. When she looked over, he stood in the doorway, looking as cold and unaffected as ever. Not a single hair had escaped from its silver tie; his waistcoat was ironed perfectly smooth; his cravat fell in an elegant swirl at his throat. His silver-blue eyes were blank, looking at her as if she were no more familiar than a shopgirl at Borgin and Burke's.

"Not well." She stumbled over her words, feeling utterly self conscious in her Gap hoodie and frayed jeans. "Though I suppose it was ambitious to think I'd solve it in less than two weeks."

"Indeed."

Hermione thought he would leave, but he simply stood in the doorway, watching her as she tried to continue reading. His presence, silently watching, distracted her. She found she could not focus on the words.

Suddenly, Draco seized with a coughing fit. Hermione grabbed her wand and a spray bottle of potion, and a few muttered words later, he had settled once again on the bed.

His father still stood in the doorway.

"They've become less frequent," he said after a moment. "I'm not sure if that's a sign he is rallying, or the opposite."

Until now, Malfoy had said very little about his sick son. Now, his voice sounded reedier than Hermione had ever heard. It was as close to genuine emotion as she'd ever seen from him.

"We can't give up hope, Sir," she murmured.

"Such hackneyed sentiment, Miss Granger."

Despite his words, his voice held no vitriol. He stared at Draco with a distant expression, and he almost seemed to be speaking to himself.

"How strange to think that, other than myself, you are the only person who has shown any care toward my son since he was stricken."

Hermione bit back the questions at the tip of her tongue, along with the platitudes she was sure he wouldn't appreciate - _I'm sure that's not true_ rang somewhat hollow when she knew for a fact that nobody had visited or inquired after Draco for the past week and a half.

His blue eyes locked onto her, and his distant expression vanished, replaced by what almost looked to be amusement. "The irony is not lost on me, Miss Granger that it is you and I that are the only two."

"At least it's a quality two," she replied, feeling as if she were rising to some unspoken challenge.

The corner of his lip twitched; the closest Hermione had ever seen to true amusement from Lucius Malfoy. They were silent a moment, and the strange moment of almost-teasing passed.

"Is there anything... I could do to assist your research, Miss Granger?"

She shrugged and glanced down at the textbook in her hands. "Not unless you can find me a better collection of books on curses. After the war, pretty much anything vaguely dark has either been placed under a maximum clearance ward, or... burned."

She wrinkled her nose at the thought of burning books, even ones about dark magic. It seemed all too totalitarian, too close to the sorts of dictatorship that she'd been fighting against throughout the war. Yet, the Council had passed the decree mere days after the death of Voldemort, and Kingsley had not vetoed it. She had avoided the _Fahrenheit 451-_ ish plumes of flames in the days that followed, but the scent of burnt paper had lingered in Diagon Alley for weeks afterward.

"I would have thought you positively joyful at the thought of stamping out such dark knowledge," Lucius replied silkily. " _Cleansing our world of all that is hateful and evil._ Isn't that how Molly Weasley described it in the Prophet?"

"Purposeful ignorance is wrong. Knowledge isn't bad, in and of itself. It's how you _use_ it. And I think it's utterly ridiculous to try and erase Britain's history of dark magic. Now we'll just have a black market for it, and the people who are _supposed_ to protect us will be completely unable to defend against it, because all they're learning is the most childish nonsense from _A Primer for Law Enforcement."_ She crossed her arms. "It's simply ignorant."

Malfoy tutted. "What would your Auror friends say if they could hear you say such things?"

"What does it matter what they think? _I'm_ not an Auror." She stared him down. "This is exactly why I want to become a lawyer. If they tried to take my books and burn them... well, I'd fight them tooth and nail."

Malfoy lifted an eyebrow. "And what of those Death Eater families that have such _hateful and evil_ literature at hand? Surely, Miss Granger, you realize that families such as mine have been the primary collectors of such books over the centuries."

"As I said. It's not the book's fault." She narrowed her eyes. "It's the person who puts the knowledge to use."

There was a long, awkward silence between them. Hermione swallowed nervously, while Malfoy simply stared at her from the doorway. Just as Hermione was about to say something - anything - to break the silence, he spoke.

"I could, perhaps, find you more... challenging... reading material." His words were slow, and he watched her reaction closely. "I have many friends who are fond of... _questionable_ literature."

Hermione's heartbeat quickened, and for a moment, she doubted herself. What Malfoy suggested was illegal, though in her view, hardly immoral. Still, possessing, reading, or writing dark material was against the law. Not only could she be charged, she would be complicit with Lucius Malfoy.

Still, what was the alternative? To just give up like everyone else and allow Draco Malfoy to die?

"We'd be committing a crime," she murmured.

"Theoretically. But who would know? I would take an oath of secrecy about your activities, if you wish it. And no-one would suspect you as a rulebreaker, Miss Granger." His lips twisted bitterly. "As for me, it would not be my first stint in Azkaban. The risk is worth it for Draco's sake."

She nodded slowly, feeling an anxious lump pooling in the pit of her stomach. In the back of her mind, she wondered if she had just made a deal with the devil. Would Lucius Malfoy now use this as one more opportunity to blackmail or manipulate? Yet how - after all, he was complicit, too.

"If you'll excuse me, Miss Granger. I will return in a few hours." He nodded toward her, and swept out.

Nothing about his expression seemed triumphant or plotting. In fact, he seemed distracted.

With a sigh, Hermione looked down at her book. She did not like this side of Malfoy, one that wasn't quite as easy to hate. She reminded herself, momentarily, of Cardiff, and a fresh wave of anger washed through her.

 _Anger isn't healthy_ , she reminded herself. Still, it seemed healthier than the alternative... this bizarre fucking-and-civility with a man who was simultaneously her boss, her enemy, and a criminal.

* * *

By quarter to two, Hermione began to wonder if Malfoy would return. She worried her lip, wondering if - when her shift ended - she should leave Malfoy Junior alone here. Maybe Stultus would help? It seemed unlikely; the elf steadfastly refused to listen to her unless Malfoy Senior was present.

"Stultus?" she called out. "Stultus, are you here?"

No response. Hermione sighed and glanced over at the pale, unmoving form of Draco Malfoy. Well, she supposed, she couldn't leave him alone.

"I'll have to do something about that disrespectful elf," a deep male voice rumbled from the doorway.

Hermione squeaked in surprise, then shot Malfoy a small, embarrassed smile at her overreaction. Malfoy didn't seem to notice. He was concentrating too intently on hovering a stack of books into the room. They fell onto the night table with a heavy thud. There had to be at least a dozen, all bound in ancient, cracked leather. Hermione couldn't prevent a small, excited smile from flitting over her face.

"I brought books which generally dealt with curses. Perhaps next time you could advise me the topics which you'd find most helpful," he muttered.

Now, without the books to levitate, he stood in the doorway surveying her.

"This will _more_ than do," Hermione replied.

She could think of nothing more exciting than diving into the stack. Without thinking, she reached for the book on the top of the pile. In a flash, Malfoy's hand darted out, grabbing her wrist before she could touch it. Hermione's eyes widened in fear as he immobilized her arm midair. Her heartbeat quickened. For a moment, she wondered if he was going to attack her.

"Malfoy?" Her voice sounded pitifully weak to her own ears.

He swallowed, and seemed to be frozen for a moment, her hand caught in his grip as his eyes bored into her.

"Miss Granger. These are dark books. They've never been touched by a... well. Who knows what curses may have been placed on them." He paused. "I haven't examined these. I have no desire to explain to the Aurors how you became accidentally cursed in my home... not that they would believe me."

Her face flushed at her impulsive mistake, but he dropped her wrist without further comment. He clasped his hands behind his back and walked away from her, intently examining a watercolour on the wall. Hermione tamped down the urge to ask _who_ these books belonged to.

She didn't, of course. The less she knew, the better.

A quick swish of her wand confirmed that no curses had been placed on the top book, and with a far more tentative hand, she reached for it.

"Your shift is completed for the day, Miss Granger," he turned back. "Go home. Eat. Sleep."

"I will, Sir, I just want to take a quick look..."

Distracted by the prospect of a new book, she flipped open the worn cover to reveal the front plate. "Secretts of the Darke Guild Masters" - _ooh, early printing press, must be Tudor_ , she thought excitedly. She eagerly reached for the second one in the pile, only to feel Lucius Malfoy's hand rest gently atop hers, stilling her. His fingers were warm, dry, and soft - no hard-work callused hands for Lucius Malfoy.

"Tomorrow, Miss Granger."

She gazed longingly at the pile of books, but nodded. After all, it _was_ his house.

"If you'll excuse me, Miss Granger. I have a meeting I must prepare for. Good evening."

He pulled his hand back and stalked out. Once the house-elf arrived, she grabbed her bag and headed to the door. It was only once she was a few steps outside that she realized she'd accidentally left her jacket behind. She rolled her eyes at her own thoughtlessness and turned around to return.

As she walked back toward Draco's room, she heard footsteps - and not just Malfoy's familiar ones. At the end of the long hallway, she spotted Malfoy walking alongside another man. With their backs to her, she couldn't see who Malfoy was meeting with. They didn't seem to notice her as they entered one of the formal sitting rooms. She would have to pass the open door - and past both Malfoy and his guest - to get to Draco. Though Malfoy had never said her work here was a secret, she didn't want this stranger to see her inside Malfoy Manor.

The fewer people who knew she was here, the better - for both herself and Lucius. Suddenly, she was glad she'd worn runners. She could sneak past the door silently.

As she tiptoed past, she could overhear their conversation. The unknown man was speaking.

"It was easy enough to track her, since all of her transactions are being drawn on the Malfoy vault." There was the sound of shuffling papers. "She's apparently been traipsing across Europe, staying at five-star hotels. Last week she was in Monaco. The week before in Saint Tropez. Now she's in Chamonix. She's paid up at the Hotel Hameau until next Friday."

"Narcissa has always been fond of travel," Lucius said flatly.

Hermione's eyes widened, and her footsteps slowed. She knew it was wrong to eavesdrop, but she had wondered about the whereabouts of Narcissa Malfoy since she'd first arrived.

"She isn't there alone, Mister Malfoy."

"I rather suspected not." Malfoy seemed to hesitate for a moment as he spoke. "Did you get a sense of whether she is returning to her usual self?"

"I'm afraid not, Sir. She is neither sleeping nor eating, and her mood was obviously disturbed."

"Rodolphus will look after her," he muttered. "He always does."

Hermione clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. _Narcissa_ was traveling about Europe with her widower brother-in-law while Draco lay here dying? Of all the scenarios Hermione had imagined, such scandalous thoughts had never occurred to her.

The conversation ceased, and she suddenly felt as if the air had changed. She heard creaking furniture, then slow footsteps. Lucius appeared at the doorway. His face was impassive, but she could see the hard anger in his gray eyes.

She didn't recognize the man beside him. His brown suit and tie were ill-fitting, and he had straggly and unkempt moustache.

"So it appears we have a little spy in our midst," Malfoy said coldly.

"You're Hermione Granger." The unknown man's eyes widened in recognition. "Mister Malfoy, shall I call the Aurors?"

"That is unnecessary." He paused and eyed Hermione. "I have - perhaps foolishly - allowed her here."

She felt her heartbeat race under Lucius's cold, piercing gaze. Involuntarily, she swallowed, and stared at the floor.

"I... erm... just accidentally left my jacket in... the bedroom..."

"Ah, now I see." The strange little moustached man glanced over at Lucius and had the audacity to _smirk_. "Interesting choice, if I do say, Malfoy."

"Miss Granger is recently in my employ." Lucius's frosty gaze seemed to make the man wilt. "As a _caregiver_ for my _son_."

Hermione's cheeks flamed. The little moustachioed man's innuendo hadn't been _wrong,_ after all. Lucius had simply lied by omission.

She'd been giving 'care' to more than just Draco.

"Though I must admit, I did not expect her to pry into my personal affairs." Lucius paused. "Menzies, you may go. Stultus will see you out. I will contact you again if I require your services. As for you, Miss Granger, you will remain a moment. This type of behaviour requires disciplinary action."

Hermione felt a thrill arc through her at his words. _Disciplinary action._ Her mind conjures up the memory of his hand against her arse, and the erotic sting of the smack he'd given her.

She wondered, idly, if she had gone a bit mad. Surely normal women didn't _like_ that sort of thing? To fantasize about being disrespected, dominated...

He was silent for what seemed like hours, though it could have only been a few minutes until the thud of the front door echoed through the corridor, signaling Menzies' departure.

"You just couldn't leave well enough alone, could you, Miss Granger," his voice was angrier than she'd ever heard, and his steely eyes narrowed. "You must take such _pleasure_ in this - listening to the sordid details of my marital breakdown."

"I just needed my jacket..." she whispered. "And I don't take pleasure in it."

"Don't _lie_ to me. You stopped outside the door minutes ago. I heard your footsteps." His jaw clenched. "You deceitful little _bitch_."

She felt a spike of anger at his foul words, and she unleashed a wave of bitterness in riposte. "And yet you kept talking, didn't you, Malfoy?"

"Quiet," he hissed.

"No. If you _knew_ I was there outside the door, it's _your_ fault. You didn't _need_ to blurt out all of Narcissa's shameful behaviour. Fucking your brother-in-law across Europe? That's quite the reason to ditch your son and husband."

"Be quiet!" He was shouting now, his hands clenched.

"No, Malfoy." She paused. "You _wanted_ me to know. Why? I don't feel sorry for you."

" _Obey me_ ," his voice echoed through the corridor. "Stop talking!"

She knew this was like provoking a deadly snake, but she couldn't help herself. Some primal little voice inside her was enjoying this - enjoying being able to destroy pristine-perfect Lucius Malfoy's facade; to cut him with her words, as he'd injured so many others.

She wanted to _break_ him.

"I don't think you're really angry at me. I'm just a convenient substitute for your wife at the moment."

He let out a growl of pure rage and rushed toward her. Too late she regretted her words as she realized he was going to attack her. His eyes shone with anger, his lips curled back to reveal perfectly straight white teeth. She cringed, closing her eyes and bracing herself for his strike.

Instead, she found herself slammed against the wainscoting behind her, his mouth devouring hers and his hands grasping at her body as if he didn't know where to touch first. His fingers mauled her breast, and she was sure there would be bruises. His mouth tasted of armagnac and his own distinctive coriander taste. His grassy-spicy vetiver cologne seemed to hang thickly in the air. His hips snapped against hers. She felt his length, hard and insistent, between layers of wool and cotton.

He let out a strangled groan. All of his previous restraint seemed to have vanished, leaving him wild-eyed and uncontrolled.

His hand had snaked through her hair, yanking her head back and exposing her neck. The sting to her head fueled a guilty flame of arousal inside of her, even as she tried to pull away. His hands twisted more tightly into her hair in response to her attempt to escape. He moved from her mouth to her throat, suckling wetly and nipping at the tender flesh. At the spark of pain, she bit her lip to keep from moaning, and had to stop herself from grinding against his hardness.

He pinched her nipple hard through her hoodie, eliciting a catlike yelp. She scowled at his roughness and tried to shove him back. It was like pushing on a statue. He grabbed the arm that was trying to shove him, and began to half-drag her through the corridor as she stumbled to keep up with his hurried strides.

"What are you _doing_ , Malfoy?"

The only response was his heavy breathing as she was pulled up the main staircase and into a doorway.

She realized that he'd brought her to a bedroom, but it appeared unused. Drop-sheets had been left over some of the furniture, giving the room a ghostly overtone. The gaudy pink curtains had been drawn over the windows. The air felt stale.

Still, the massive bed in the middle of the room had recently been made up. The hideous pink bed-linens looked freshly cleaned and neatly folded down.

He physically shoved her onto it, and she fell onto the slippery satin coverings on her belly, her back facing upward. His anger had left her frightened - though aroused, as well. She wasn't sure whether to flee, to fight, or to fuck him. She scrabbled to stand, but felt hands gripping her waist and holding her down.

"No," he hissed.

She tensed as he climbed onto the bed, straddling her thighs. His hands were still clamped around her waist. He let go a moment, and she heard rustling cloth. She took the opportunity to slither forward, trying to get out from under him, but the satin fabric gave her no purchase and she simply flopped under him like a beached fish.

"Not so abusive now, are you?" His voice came out a growl next to her ear, and a moment later, he muttered, " _Diffindo_."

Her hoodie fell into ribbons. "You fucking arsehole. Do you know how much that cost?"

She tried to pull herself out from under him, but with his full weight on her legs, she couldn't. As she struggled vainly beneath him, his erection seemed to harden. _He's getting off on this!_ Though she wanted to feel disgusted, her own heartbeat had sped up.

His finger looped under her bra clasp, and a moment later, she felt it spring open. Cool hands slipped under her body, cupping her breasts and dragging over her nipples.

"They're hard, Granger," he muttered. "Perhaps I _should_ be a little rougher. You're obviously not going to learn a lesson if you're _enjoying_ all of this."

"You can't just..." Her words collapsed into a hiss as he pinched one nipple. "Just do whatever you want, Malfoy."

He snorted darkly, and pulled at the waistband of her jeans.

"Remove these disgusting muggle trousers," he ordered, after unsuccessfully yanking on them several times.

"Go fuck yourself, Malfoy," she muttered.

" _Evanesco_."

She gasped at the cold air hitting her now-bare legs, and the sudden realization that along the way, Malfoy had removed his trousers and was straddling her skin-to-skin. Trousers _and_ undergarments, she realized, and she wondered how he'd managed it while straddling her.

She'd never seen or felt his legs before, she realized suddenly. He was always utterly buttoned up, allowing only his cock to spring out during their liaisons. They were muscled, lean, and sprinkled with a smattering of hair that rubbed roughly against her smoothly-waxed ones legs.

Only her thin cotton panties separated his cock from her. He ground it against her arse, as if reading her thoughts, and she unsuccessfully tried to twist away from him.

"Yes, this is how it's supposed to be," he hissed in her ear, "fight me."

She felt a hand at the back of her neck, holding her in place and brushing away her long hair. A wet mouth pressed to her shoulder blade, suckling at first, and then biting - not enough to break skin, but enough to make her jump in sudden pain and surprise. His firm chest - smooth and hairless - pressed down on her back. His hardness ground against her.

She realized she couldn't move. She couldn't do anything. She was pinned under _Lucius Fucking Malfoy_ and had no way out. Panic lanced through her at the realization of her helplessness. When she tensed, she felt his hand drag down her back, yanking down her panties so they hung around her thighs. His finger went to her clit, and she let out a shameful moan as a single fingertip slid around the wetness. She _wanted_ to be fucked, and her desire warred with her anger and desire to battle him.

"I'm going to fuck you," he whispered in her ear. "Little Miss Granger."

"Yes," she muttered into the blanket.

His erection slipped easily between her thighs, and she felt the blunt, hot head at her entrance. She had given up any struggle against him. It had been, to some degree, a game all the same. Now she lay very still, breath held in nervous anticipation.

He slid home in one hard, swift thrust. She gasped. He slid out, and then back in, hard and deep. He moved more slowly than last time, as if savouring the moment. It was too little. She needed more. Faster. Harder.

He moved more slowly, sliding out most of the way, and then holding himself there. She released a keening whine of frustration.

"Tell me what you want." His breath curled hot against her ear. "Tell me I've won."

Her pride warred with desire. She knew what he wanted - her submission. She felt a flicker of shame at how much the idea aroused her.

"I want you to fuck me," she whispered. "Please."

"Ask and ye shall receive," his voice sounded proud and arrogant and pleased at her admission, and he began pumping into her in earnest.

He pressed his hand to her upper back, holding her immobile as he pounded her into the mattress. The angle didn't allow him to penetrate as deeply last time, but she felt her heartbeat quicken at being utterly vulnerable and powerless beneath him. His thrust made her vision blur; hot, white sparks flew behind her shut eyes. She realized he was grunting, and her own higher-pitched cries joined him in chorus. She felt her walls fluttering around him.

Her climax came violently, and he gripped her body tightly against his as she clamped around his cock and flailed in his arms.

"Oh _God_ Malfoy you _fucking bastard_ oh God..." she heard herself mutter, and when she'd calmed enough for him to start moving, it only took him three snaps of his hips before he shouted his own release. As he came, he pulled out, and she felt his seed splash hot and sticky onto her legs and arse.

He crumpled atop her like a heavy, sweaty, hot blanket. A silent minute later, he rolled off her. She panted, trying to control her breathing. Next to her, she could hear Malfoy doing the same. She felt drained, both physically and emotionally. While he had been civil, even polite on their last two couplings, those had been... different, somehow. Perfunctory. Detached. An outlet for pent-up sexual energy, nothing more.

This had been overtly emotional. He had taken her in anger and lust and a desire to dominate. And she'd revelled in it.

Inwardly, she prayed that he hadn't taken her in Narcissa's bedroom. His anger - she suspected fuelled by his wife rather than herself - had been palpable. She wouldn't have put it past him to take his revenge by fucking in Narcissa's own bed.

He struck Hermione as having a perverse sense of humour.

"Whose room is it?" she finally asked.

He understood. "Not hers."

"And not yours, either," she replied, her voice as artificially bland as his.

He paused before answering. "Why? You don't think me fond of fuchsia satin and gold hibiscus?"

"I take it you're not quite as enraged with me, if you're cracking jokes about your ancestors' poor taste."

"In Victorian times, I'm sure this was the height of elegance." He paused, his breath still not quite regular. "You were right, Miss Granger."

It took her a moment to reply, so startled was she by this unusual post-coital conversation. "Hmm? About what?"

"My anger was... misplaced."

She propped herself on her elbows and looked over at him. He didn't meet her gaze, and kept staring blankly up at the ceiling. It was strange to hear Malfoy admit he'd done something wrong - particularly something so personal as admitting he'd aimed his anger at her rather than its rightful target, Narcissa.

"Well, at least we both seemed to enjoy the results," she replied.

"Indeed." He paused. "This was not my plan."

"Are you bothered by it?" she asked.

"Less than I should be." He glanced down her body. "I wonder if I've set off the spells to alert the Aurors. Perhaps your friend Potter will come knocking at the door."

She glanced over at him quizzically, and he gestured to a nearby mirror. When she stood and padded over to it, she gasped. Her shoulder bore a ring of Malfoy teeth marks. Her neck had a row of tiny red bruises, the sort she'd seen on plenty of Hogwarts students but had never seen on herself. Her thighs were sticky and shiny with body fluids.

"You may use the lavatory through that door," he said stiffly. "If you wish to speak with me afterward, you will find me in my study."

With that, he walked out.


	4. Discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Granger and Malfoy are logical people and don't intend to spend time with one another. Intentions aren't the same as wants, though, especially as Granger learns more about the Malfoys, and Malfoy learns more about her.  
> This chapter is relatively smutless.

She glanced around the small lavatory. Its brass fittings looked plucked from a Victorian bordello, with chintz curtains, a claw-footed tub, and a dusty floral carpet covering most of the tile floor. When she opened the cupboard, she found a pile of towels, some phials of dried-up contraceptive potions, and a bottle of Lydia Pinkham's pink pills. A dusty silk dressing gown lay on the bottom shelf, alongside two tortoiseshell hairpins and the moth-eaten remains of what appeared to be Victorian corsetry. A set of faded sketches on the walls displayed half-dressed, zaftig Victorian ladies, showing quite a lot of breast and ankle.

Hermione pursed her lips at what sort of lady had once inhabited this suite.

She drew a bath, and the water initially came out brown. After it cleared, she stepped into the tub. Her skin was tender. The small wounds along her neck stung when they hit the hot water. As she floated in the deep water, she thought back to their coupling. Her face flamed.

He'd treated her roughly; primitively. A logical, modern part of her mind told her that she should be horrified.

She'd liked it. There was no denying the truth, however backwards and primal. When she'd felt his weight upon her, his strong hands and overbearing demands, he'd never seemed more masculine.

When she got out of the tub, she secured her hair around the tortoiseshell pins and wrapped herself in the silk dressing gown. It had been embroidered in gaudy purple, orange and silver hippogryffs.

With only her bra and panties left to wear, she didn't have much choice. And her panties were unusable - they had been soaked through by the time Malfoy removed them.

She sighed and padded out the bathroom. She wondered if he'd somehow try to slip her another portkey. _How am I going to explain to Harry why I'm wet, bra-less, and wearing only a thin silk dressing gown when I reappear at Grimmauld Place?_

Except there was nothing outside - no note, no Stultus, just unending corridors running in every direction. Identical doors - dozens of them - lined the walls. Idly, she wondered which was Draco's, which Narcissa's, and which Lucius's. And what were all the rest used for?

Not that she was going to wander off. Who knew what kind of traps could lie in wait for a muggleborn around Malfoy Manor?

The massive oak staircase led into the front foyer. She felt like a monopoly piece on a chessboard - starkly out of place - as she padded downstairs, barefoot, in only a borrowed Victorian dressing gown.

A thrum of nervousness wound around her belly as she approached his study. The air was still and utterly silent, and she could easily believe the house was abandoned. Perhaps he was only being polite about finding him there.

The door was open, and she peeked in. He'd moved the wingback chairs, slightly, so he could see the door from the corner of his eye. He had dressed and groomed himself immaculately once again, and no-one would have guessed that half an hour earlier he had been sweaty, unkempt, and naked.

"Come in, Miss Granger. There's no need to hang about the door like a child awaiting detention," he huffed.

She crossed her arms over her chest and settled into the chair across from him. A tray had already been brought for him, laden with cheese, bread, and fruit, but she noticed that it looked relatively untouched. His whiskey glass, however, looked nearly drained already.

"Eat," he commanded, sliding a glass of whiskey and an empty saucer over to her. "I've got a jar of bruise salve on my sideboard for you. I'd rather not have Potter and that Irish boy calling the Aurors when you return home."

"Oh, I live with a lot more than just them, Malfoy. There are usually at least a half dozen people living there at any given time." She popped a grape into her mouth. "It's a circus."

He lifted one cornsilk eyebrow. "I see. At least six potential witnesses to my violent tendencies."

"That's a bit dramatic, even for you." She rolled her eyes. "Besides, I'd never tell them anything. They'd be horrified to learn that you're not just a two-dimensional evil puppet."

"I'm not? I feel you've just vaguely insulted me." He reached for the tray, and his voice seemed to become hesitant. "Tell me, will you tell your little friends about my predicament with Narcissa?"

Her eyes widened, and she froze halfway-chewing through a grape. "Of course not! Besides, it'd be a little hypocritical of me to judge, considering... well... what we've been up to."

He let out a small huff, and concentrated intently on buttering an oatcake and balancing a slice of Wensleydale upon it. It was such a strange, incongruous moment of domesticity that Hermione did a double-take. Her hand hung halfway between her mouth and the plate, clasping a half-eaten strawberry.

"Are you all right, Miss Granger?"

She laughed, feeling lightheaded. "Just thinking about how strange it is that Lucius Malfoy would have invited me into his study to share a meal."

He stiffened, and she caught a hint of something defensive in his slate-coloured eyes. She'd always thought of him as something akin to a statue - Machiavellian, perhaps sociopathic, and most definitely emotionless.

Perhaps not.

"I'm not forcing you to remain here by any means, Miss Granger," he replied icily. "You may go whenever..."

"Malfoy, I don't _want_ to go. It's just a little unbelievable." She bit the strawberry. "You want to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?" he demanded.

"Narcissa," she replied, feeling the way his wife's name weighed heavily in her mouth.

"Absolutely not," he replied tartly and changed the subject. "While you bathed, Stultus attended Grimmauld Place and got a change of clothes for you from Mr. Potter. They're in the lavatory you usually use."

Hermione gasped and felt her face redden. Harry would know. Malfoy held up one mollifying hand.

"Potter thinks that you accidentally spilt tea down your clothing, nothing more. I'm not so indiscreet, Miss Granger."

"It's almost as if you've done this before," Hermione rolled her eyes. "Lord knows that bedroom looks plucked from a whorehouse."

"In the eighteen nineties, perhaps," Malfoy snapped. "And for your information, I certainly have not done 'this' before, Miss Granger. I've taken a grand total of two women to my bed since I met her."

The comment hung heavily, silently between them for a moment. Regret flitted briefly over his features.

Hermione swallowed. "I'm sorry. It was just a thoughtless comment."

She suddenly lost her appetite and slid her plate away. Malfoy had spent more than twenty years with Narcissa Malfoy. He'd been faithful to her. Her infidelity - with Rodolphus Lestrange of all people - must have been crushing, particularly to someone so prideful.

Malfoy stood up, walked over to his sideboard, and returned with a small jar.

"Sit at the edge of the chair, Miss Granger," he instructed.

She glanced up at him quizzically, but did as he asked. It took her a moment to realize that he was going to apply the bruise salve himself.

"I don't trust you to do an adequate job," he explained dismissively. "And then I'll be back in Azkaban before you can say _Harry Potter's an interfering fool_."

"Malfoy..." she warned, but her voice petered out when she felt cool salve against her warm skin.

His fingers moved in small circles against her neck and shoulder, and she felt the dull ache vanish under his fingers. It felt awfully relaxing, and her eyes fluttered shut under his gentle ministrations. After a minute of silence, he spoke, his voice soft and deceptively casual.

"She's blameless, you know. She has the Black family illness." He paused. "There's no cure. Bellatrix had it. So too did her father, Cygnus. And my son. It causes brief periods of madness, and then... clarity."

She bit her lip to keep from spouting hollow platitudes - _I'm so sorry, I'm sure it's not so bad, I'm sure it'll get better._

As his fingers approached the bite mark, he halted.

"I think I'll leave this. It'll be covered by your shirt, anyhow," he murmured.

Her eyes opened to look up at him. She was tempted to ask him why, but at his deep gaze she went silent. There was something behind them that she couldn't quite identify. But the emotion was intense enough that she knew she didn't want to crush it. He seemed uncharacteristically fragile at the moment, utterly unlike the Lucius Malfoy she knew.

He grabbed her napkin and wiped the salve from his hands. His gaze grew shuttered, his expression hard, and he stared into the fireplace.

"The sun is setting, Miss Granger."

She understood the dismissal.

"Good-night, Mister Malfoy. Thank you for the meal," she whispered.

He nodded sharply but did not look her way. "I'll see you tomorrow."

* * *

Hermione was surprised at how good she felt as she walked into Grimmauld Place. She felt relaxed, her muscles marshmallow-soft, and she wondered if she was still coasting on hormonal post-coital euphoria. The fog of guilt that had hung over her was gone - though rightfully, she knew she should feel guilty.

As the door opened, Seamus, Dean and Harry sat at the dining room table, drinking beer and shuffling a deck of cards.

"Evenin' Hermione," Seamus greeted. "Late again, eh?"

"She had a spill at Malfoy's place. Apparently dumped tea on herself. A complete bastard of a house-elf came and demanded a change of clothes, thinking I was Harry," Dean muttered. "Ranted a bit about _mudbloods not knowing their place_ before I told him I'd kick him out of the house."

"So you're the one that picked out this lovely ensemble?" Hermione grinned at Dean, gesturing to her neon pink leggings and red candy cane-printed sweater.

"No, it was me. Dean came and got me and I just grabbed whatever I could find, sorry." Harry frowned. "I thought it was a bit weird that you'd be taking tea at Malfoy's place."

Hermione peeled off her coat and kicked off her boots, wincing at the feel of itchy sweater brushing over tender teeth-marks. "I'm there quite a lot."

"That's true." Harry's voice was slow and deliberate; after a pause, he gestured to the table. "You want something to eat? We've made Pot Noodle."

"I already ate," she replied distractedly.

"Where's your jacket?" Harry asked. "You had it this morning."

There was an edge to his tone that made Hermione freeze. Her brown eyes met his green ones in an awkward silent exchange. Thankfully, Seamus broke the moment.

Seamus gestured to an empty chair. "Eh, Harry, be quiet and let the lady come home in peace. C'mon, Hermione. We were just about to start a poker game, and we need a fourth player. I'll grab you a G&T if you want."

She nodded. It would be good to focus on something totally unrelated to Malfoy for a change.

* * *

Hermione's head swam. She and Seamus - after being trounced at poker - had devolved into whiskey shots and singing terrible folk songs until nearly one in the morning.

It hadn't been her finest moment. Now, sitting in Draco's room at Malfoy Manor, she felt horribly hung over. Her stomach flipped, and she hurried to the lavatory, thinking she might vomit. She clutched at the toilet, praying she kept down her breakfast.

Of course, it was at that moment that Lucius Malfoy decided to pass by.

"Miss Granger?"

"Yeah, Malfoy?" she muttered, glad that the dry heaves had ceased.

"You're ill."

"Well spotted, Malfoy."

"You shouldn't be here if you're contagious. Draco is quite weak."

"I'm not contagious. I'm hung over." She cringed.

He pursed his lips and walked away, reappearing a few minutes later with a phial in hand.

"Take it."

She thankfully swallowed the contents. Her headache and nausea instantly vanished. It was only then that she considered the fact she'd downed a potion from Lucius Malfoy without a second thought. Did she _trust_ him? 

"Merlin knows the Malfoy men have been known to overindulge." Lucius paused in the doorway. "Tell me, what brought on this uncharacteristic alcoholic debauchery?"

"Ugh, nothing. Seamus just kept topping up my whiskey while we were playing poker and when he was teaching me the words to _Amhrán na bhFiann_." She splashed cold water on her face. "We were just having fun and I overindulged."

He stared at her coldly and silently. She felt her face flush under his scalpel-like gaze.

"Go back to Draco," he muttered.

With that, he stalked off. She felt she'd said something to offend him, but she couldn't figure out _what_. She tried to dismiss it from her mind as she returned to Malfoy's room and settled into her usual chair.

Hermione sat back as Stultus appeared to change the bed-linens. The horrible little house-elf narrowed his eyes at her and watched from under hooded brows.

"Stultus has cleaned the dressing gown that Missy... Missy wore yesterday. And cleansed the bedchamber." Stultus scowled. "Missy has bewitched the Master. Cast some spell upon him that Stultus does not yet see. Stultus will find out!"

"Don't be foolish. I haven't cast any spells on Malfoy." Hermione sighed impatiently and flipped to the next page in her book. "I'm trying to find a curse that matches what's wrong with Draco, and if you're just going to be rude, you can go."

"Master ordered me here. To look after the young master's curse! He is very bad, very bad today... the purple water is so very purple..." Stultus shook his head. "Just like my old mistress. Both of them that bad purple colour means their minds are somewhere else. No sunshine allowed on them, on pure skin, too pure for sunlight. We know!"

Hermione felt a memory twinge in her mind. _Purple coloured water._

"When you say purple water, are you talking about urine?" she asked.

"Crass Mudblood," Stultus muttered. "Yes, Stultus mean that by water! Not even polite words from you. So rude."

She recalled reading a book about King George the Third - _The Madness of George III_ , she thought - and vaguely she recalled sun sensitivity, heritable madness, and purple urine all being symptoms. She realized she might have a name for what afflicted the Blacks, a disease identified by modern Muggle medicine. A disease that muggle medicine had long been able to control.

But that didn't necessarily mean it was related to Draco's illness. Or was it?

As soon as she was finished here, she would head to the local _muggle_ library.

* * *

Lucius stared broodingly out his study window, thinking on Miss Hermione Granger, the girl he had thrice taken to his bed, despite his better intentions.

If only she came from a better background. She was - objectively - an uncommon woman; pretty, slim, tall, intelligent, and a challenge, in all things. But a mudblood. And that always came first.

He shuddered at his own weakness. He'd hoped she would help Draco, but in two weeks she'd done little but fuck him and (apparently) behave flirtatiously with some drunken Irish lout from her school days.

He did not approve. Not of the liaison with himself, and definitely not with some potential affair with an Irishman while she simultaneously had liaisons with him.

It had been several days since he last saw her - retching in his lavatory, when he'd felt an uncharacteristic softness when he saw her distress. He'd purposely avoided her since then. She was a temptation, all exposed legs, exciting promiscuity, and sweetly-innocent facade.

"Malfoy!"

He paused and turned at her clear voice from the doorway. Now, he left it open for her, though since they'd started fucking she never attended without invitation.

"Do you require something, Miss Granger?" he asked.

"I've got an idea. I think, anyhow. I'm still working it out," her words tumbled out, as if her mind was going faster than she could speak. "I wondered if Draco was taking any potions - anything at all - in the lead-up to his illness? You see, if my suspicions are right, that's the only thing I can think of. Maybe my hypothesis is wrong, but..."

"I'm not aware of any," he interrupted blandly. "He was in good health, as far as anyone knew."

He turned back to his book, avoiding looking at her. She wore a black dress that went to the knees, slip-on shoes, and a pink cardigan that accentuated her breasts. It was far more attractive than her usual asexual muggle denim trousers and oversized shirts. Her brown eyes shone with excitement and thought. She practically glowed with youth and intelligence. His chest felt tight when he looked at her too long.

"Malfoy, I was rather hoping you'd take a look in his medicine cupboard or room." Her voice was still too quick, too enthusiastic. "I mean, if a nineteen year old man is taking a potion, he's not necessarily going to tell his parents about it, is he?"

Lucius felt vaguely affronted at the suggestion that Draco might've been taking something illicit, but said nothing. For the first time, Granger seemed to truly think she'd found a possible explanation. For Draco's sake, he could hold off on an argument.

"Fine. You will accompany me, as I imagine you have some idea of what to look for." He snapped the book shut and stood. "I assume Stultus is with Draco?"

"Yes, Sir," she replied, grinning as if she'd accomplished some great feat.

His groin twitched in response. Miss Granger, stubborn and wild and demanding - he liked the idea of her naked and submissive. Given their prior liaisons, he suspected she might be willing to call him Sir in a very different context...

He realized she was speaking. They were ascending the staircase, the same one he'd dragged her up before they'd fucked the last time.

"...obviously that room hasn't been used in years, and only that hideous fuchsia bedding had been recently cleaned. It was full of things that were a hundred years old and so much dust. I just wondered why it was opened up now?"

Ah; she was talking about the Flower Room, which had been euphemistically renamed from its former, artless name - the Aphrodite Room. His lip curled. Not that the Flower room was much preferable.

"It was a veiled insult from my house-elf," he muttered distractedly. "The suite was originally furnished for one of my forefathers' mistresses, and has been used, off and on, for that purpose since the seventeenth century."

"A mistress's suite in the house? I bet the various Madam Malfoys just _loved_ that," Hermione muttered. "Imagine the conversation over the breakfast table."

"Divorce was unheard of in those times, Miss Granger. I suppose, for your sort, divorce is nothing. But it is a scandal even nowadays for pureblooded families. A stain upon the family honour." He paused. "In those times, I imagine such arrangements were acceptable for all involved."

Hermione's eyebrow lifted disbelievingly, but she said nothing more. In fact, Lucius had been _exceedingly_ displeased by Stultus's conduct in opening up the room. The implication had been clear - that he'd taken Hermione as a mistress. Which, of course, he had not, and had no _intention_ of doing. Yet, he'd dragged her in there and fucked her. He hadn't even thought about it; he'd just _done_ it. Only after the fact did he linger on why.

He shuddered at the thought. What would his ancestors' portraits think if they knew a mudblood had been in their midst, defiling one of their bloodline, _corrupting_ him? Yet, that wasn't fair - he had bedded her with eyes wide open. He had made his own choice.

They passed the door to the Flower Room - open, and with the bed-linens neatly re-made after their messy coupling earlier in the week. He did not look. He'd passed it each morning, and each time was a reminder of what he'd done. He tried to put it out of his mind as he led her toward Draco's bedchamber.

* * *

Malfoy seemed distracted. Hermione, after her question about the bedroom, hadn't asked any other questions. She followed him silently to an old oak door. He went inside first.

Draco had been a spoilt young man. His bedroom was twice the size of her parents' master. The walls were lined with Quidditch trophies, vintage snitches, and books. A silver inkpot and swan quill lay haphazardly on an oak desk. The room was immaculately tidy; the work of a house-elf, she was sure.

Malfoy made no move to help, so Hermione began to search the room. It was a bit unnerving, him staring from the doorway as she opened drawers and crawled around on the floor.

"Why are you just standing there?" she muttered after the first five minutes.

"It's my house, Miss Granger," he replied. "And the view is pleasant."

She blushed hotly; she hadn't realized that crawling about gave him a direct view of her arse. Still, she wasn't about to let him distract her from her task.

As she rifled through a box under the bed, she cringed at the discovery of several gentleman's magazines featuring busty brunette witches in various states of undress. Holding it by the corner with two fingers, she tossed it aside. She swore, for a moment, that she heard Lucius snort. She shot him a vaguely chiding frown, but said nothing. If her theory was right, then Draco's illness had to have combined with something to put him into a coma. Something where the magic worked from the inside of the body, out. Something like a potion.

"I think I've got it," she muttered, finding a chest full of phials on the bottom of a bookshelf.

Malfoy seemed to perk up. "What are they, Miss Granger?"

"Lots of Dreamless Sleep... Elixir to Induce Euphoria... Sleekeazy's... and Muscle Maker Potion." She rolled her eyes. "Well, this should narrow it down, at least."

Malfoy stared blankly at the potions in her hand and said nothing. Hermione grew increasingly uncomfortable at his silence. After a minute, Malfoy finally nodded and gestured for her to follow him out of the room. She caught his eyes lingering on the box full of potions she still carried. Clearly, Malfoy hadn't known his son was taking them. Her triumph was doused, just a little, by Malfoy's distracted frown.

Perhaps even Malfoy felt guilt.

* * *

Lucius watched her as they walked back to the small guest room where Draco remained unconscious but alive. He tried to force out the disturbing conclusions roiling in his mind. Dreamless Sleep? Elixir to Induce Euphoria? Had his son been so miserable, so tormented, without anyone even suspecting?

Except Miss Granger, who did not even know Draco.

There was no utility in lingering upon it - no, he should focus on the present, on getting Draco well. Following Miss Granger's sylphlike figure, he was suddenly struck by how carefully she had limited her presence within the manor. If he did not escort her, she remained dutifully within Draco's rooms, the main corridor, or the small adjoining lavatory. She did not explore. She rarely sought him out. She was a ghost, lingering, her footsteps and lilac scent the only hints of her presence.

For a moment, he thought it a shame - though he did not understand _why_.

He continued watching her even as she settled into her usual stool at the corner of Draco's bedroom, awkwardly trying to set up her reading and note-taking without a proper desk. She had turned the night-table into a makeshift bookshelf, but he was struck by how utterly inadequate her current setup was. She wrote her notes against the wall. She stored her parchments on a minuscule accent table.

It would not do. Even terribly-funded researchers like Severus at Hogwarts managed to secure a desk for themselves. How had he possibly expected Miss Granger to concentrate on curing Draco when she had nothing but a stool and a irritating house-elf that interrupted her at every turn?

No, he would need to move a desk in here, forthwith. Perhaps an inkwell, and a bookshelf as well.

"Miss Granger." He paused. "Come with me."

"But we've just gotten here." Her brow furrowed. "And Draco hasn't anyone to look after him."

"If you hadn't noticed, Miss Granger, he has stabilized - though not improved - since your arrival. Even that fool house-elf has followed your example in caring for him." He pursed his lips. "Your talents are needed elsewhere, now that Stultus has learned how to be... competent, at a minimum."

Granger's brow furrowed - he felt a flicker of distaste at how _cute_ he found the expression - but she nodded and followed him obediently. Even he felt divided at what he now planned. Was it wise to encourage Miss Granger's explorations? Was it wise to ingratiate her further into the Manor? Into his home, his life?

Still, he forged onward, telling himself that it was for Draco. He led her through a corridor, then another, until they reached a pair of double oak doors, ancient and carved with thick, writhing pythons. He could not help a bitter smile at how fitting the imagery was. If he hadn't fucked the girl - and still found her eminently enticing - he would not have brought her here.

She hesitated when he gestured for her to enter.

"Go inside. You aren't going to be harmed," he snapped, more curt than he intended.

"It's not..." She swallowed. "Is it the dining room?"

Instantly, he felt contrite. The doors were identical to the ones in his formal dining room far across the Manor. But how was she to know that? Her shrieks under Bella's wand instantly reverberated in his ears, and he could not hold back his flinch.

"Of course not. I would never..." He cleared his throat, rethinking what would have been a distasteful emotional outburst. "The site of your more unsavoury experiences have been locked up. You will not be exposed to them. This is a library. I thought, perhaps, you might work more efficiently at a desk."

"Oh."

He saw her face flush. Inwardly, he knew she shouldn't be embarrassed; she had been the victim of his family. No, not just his family; of him.

He had said nothing. His stomach roiled with a foreign flicker of shame. He tried to focus on anything, anywhere else than this horrifyingly emotional train of thought.

"Please, Miss Granger," he said, though he did not know what exactly he was asking of her.

The door was open; he could not recall if he'd thrown the doors or not. Either way, he heard her gasp. He saw her brandy-coloured eyes swivel round the room as if she were a first year encountering the Great Hall for the first time. Lucius had grown up here; he had never felt any awe at the tall windows, the oversized bookshelves and the marble-topped reading desks and the leather-padded window seats. It had all just been his inheritance as a Malfoy.

He felt a vague regret now that he was confronted by her awe. In his four-odd decades as a Malfoy, he doubted he'd read more than a handful of the books in the old library.

"It's amazing." She spun around, looking at the small gilded crest over the door. "There must be thousands of books here. You could spend a lifetime here and never read the same thing twice. You're so lucky, Malfoy."

She sighed and shot him a dreamy smile.

At that moment, Lucius knew that no desk would be moved into Draco's room. No, this library would be Miss Granger's territory. And he was happy to let her take it.

He tried not to linger on what that meant.

"Access it for whatever use you might make of it." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "If you will excuse me."

He hurried away, back to his armagnac and his reports on the rents on the Malfoy properties - distractions to take his thoughts away from the razor-focused, intellectual young beauty in his library. His _lover_ , he thought self-deprecatingly, who was trying to save his son.

 _Fuck_.

He poured himself a knuckle of armagnac, and downed it one fell swoop. Hermione Granger. She of the hideous name, of the hideous background, had become his lover. Now, he did not deny it; there was some part of him that enjoyed pleasing her. He nearly laughed at the absurdity. Fate was obviously mocking him.

He sighed. Sleep had not come easily to him lately, and he wondered if his exhaustion explained his illogical thoughts. Yet the thought of Granger nearby, fighting for Draco... he settled into his wingback chair and allowed his eyes to close.

When he awoke, it was dark. He felt a flash of regret that he had not been able to watch Granger's retreating form out the window, as had become his habit. From his study, he could watch as she walked to the Apparation point.

With a flick of his wand, he lit the candles in his small study.

"Stultus?" His voice was still hoarse.

The house-elf popped into the study. "Master."

"Supper," he muttered through a yawn. "Nothing heavy - no beef or lamb."

"And shall Stultus provide foods for the Master's house guest?" Stultus sneered.

"Pardon me?" Lucius's brow furrowed.

Stultus's teeth bared - just a moment - before he regained self-control. "The... girl. That Master keeps now in the library."

Lucius's brow furrowed. _Girl in the library?_ Quickly, he walked out of his study, leaving Stultus behind. By the darkness, he knew it had to be at least eight at night. Miss Granger's work hours ended at four in the afternoon. She was generally prompt to leave. She had people at Grimmauld Place who worried about her welfare when she arrived late.

When he entered the library, he understood. Miss Granger lay slumped over a massive pile of books. She seemed to have picked them out as a child chooses candy - that is, at random. Books on charms, hexes, and magical history were stacked in a massive pile in front of her. They encompassed the past millennium. She'd sprawled over an Interregnum tome on the wizarding community's opposition to monarchy. It was a hefty, dull treatise - one he'd never been inclined to open.

Her hair fell golden-brown over the desk. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically. He ignored what appeared to be a bead of saliva falling down onto his nearly four centuries old book. Her arms, back, and neck were cricked in what looked like a horribly uncomfortable position slumped onto the oak tabletop.

She was still pretty.

"Stultus," he whispered.

The house-elf appeared with a _pop_. "Master?"

"Shh!" he chided at the house-elf's conversational tone. "I understand house-elves' magic can transport a person to bed without them waking. I ask you to do so with Miss Granger."

"Whose bed?" Stultus asked tartly.

"Do not disrespect me," Lucius hissed, although inwardly he supposed the question was logical enough. "The Flower Room."

"Yes, Sir," Stultus replied through gritted teeth.

He ignored Stultus's virulent scowl, a reminder of the beliefs that he himself had sworn to uphold. When he returned to his study, he scribbled off some excuse to Potter, and sent it off on his owl. It would've been easier, smarter to wake her and send her home. He was not so delusional to deny it. But he liked her being here. He liked the thought that she now was ensconced within his territory, as if from now on he could go to her whenever he pleased.

It was a self-deception. But a temporary and pleasant one and one he could not imagine causing himself much harm.


	5. Hostility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione comes up with a plan, but it doesn't necessarily mean Lucius is on board. More smut ahead, fair warning.

Malfoy eyed the now-empty dent in the chair upholstery where Granger had fallen asleep. Stultus had vanished her with a scowl and a soft _pop_ to the Flower Room. Now the only sign she'd been here was the detritus left from her studies and her cloud of lilac perfume. He stepped forward to take a closer look.

He recognized the pile of books on potions. They were all from his own library. But next to them sat a pile of unnaturally-white paper with crisp black print upon it - _PubMed_ , he read to himself. What was a _PubMed_? And the title - _Acute Intermittent Porphyria: A Challenge for the Endocrinologist_. What could it possibly mean? The document was obviously Muggle; and his brow furrowed at the unfamiliar words on the page. Next to it lay a massive chart she had drawn, with various potions down one side, and checkmarks and crosses next to symptoms.

He understood none of it.

He swallowed and backed away, sudadenly and acutely aware of how superior the girl's intellect was. Not just _magically_ , which would've been vexing enough. But this Mudblood ... girl, really... had somehow made the connection between the magical world and the muggle one, and was using her deductive reasoning to shake out a cure for Draco. Suddenly, he felt vaguely nauseous. Within him, something unnameable had shifted.

Had it not been for her blood status, he wondered what she would have already achieved. And fleetingly, he tamped down his own shame at how he had held her back for his own selfish reasons.

 _It was for Draco_ , he argued. And that was true, but he realized suddenly that Miss Hermione Granger's intellect exceeded his in ways he could not begin to imagine.

With a quick, anxious _Nox_ he doused the candles, and began to retreat to his bedroom.

It led him past the Flower Room, and against his better judgment, his footsteps slowed and he gently opened the door to peer in.

Miss Granger lay curled under the blanket, her hair splayed over the pillow, her breathing soft and rhythmic. Her face, in sleep, looked almost childish.

He tamped down the sudden urge to slip in next to her. His stomach roiled at such foolish desires. He wasn't a besotted teenager, he was a nearly middle-aged man whose libido sometimes overtook his common sense.

He repeated that thought to himself even as he gently shut the door and retreated to what seemed to be a too-large, too-cold, and too-empty bed.

* * *

Hermione awoke with a flurry of panic. Everything was _wrong_. The embroidered satin coverlet felt slippery over her skin, so very different than Molly's homey knitted blanket. The air smelled like vetiver and bitter coffee, not like Padma's Paris Hilton perfume and Parvati's Body Shop foot lotion. It was deathly silent - an impossibility in London.

She sat up with a start, fears of being back in the Forest of Dean racing through her mind. With a sigh of relief, she realized she was in Malfoy Manor. Not one of the terrifying bits, but in that gaudy room she'd unwisely shagged him in. _The Flower Room_ , where Malfoys apparently kept their mistresses.

Was she Lucius Malfoy's mistress? She shivered at the thought. He hated Muggleborns. And surely, three impulsive shags did not a mistress make. Yet why was she here? Why was she tucked under silk sheets for the night? Why was there a porcelain tray next to her bed, bearing a steaming cup of coffee, a sugar-bowl, and a cream jug?

A soft _pop_ interrupted her thoughts, and the curtains swung open to bathe the room in bright sunlight. Stultus stood at the end of the bed, his lips curled into a sneer.

"The Master's... _friend_... woke up. Would Master's friend like some breakfast? Master has told me I am to treat you as a _guest_."

"I'm fine," she replied tightly, inching closer to the headboard and away from the house-elf.

"Is Missy _certain_? Master said that Missy required coffee. And Missy required food. And Missy required clothing." He stepped closer. "Disgusting. Such orders are not right. Missy has put a spell on the Master. That _your kind_ would be a Malfoy mistress."

"I'm not a mistress," she snapped. "I want you to go away."

Stultus's eyes narrowed, but he did not vanish. Hermione's heartbeat raced faster. She was suddenly, acutely aware that she was alone in this room, with a creature who not only hated her, but was convinced she'd placed Lucius Malfoy under a spell. The pure malice in his eyes made her want to run.

"I said," she gritted out, her hand slipping to her wand in her waistband, "Get out, now!"

She flipped out the wand and pointed it at the house-elf. Stultus let out a sharp growl, and vanished. Seconds later, a sharp knock sounded at the door.

"Miss Granger?"

Her heartbeat had slowed, and at the sound of Malfoy's voice, she grew even less anxious. Strange, how Malfoy's presence allayed her fears. It was illogical, of course - Lucius Malfoy couldn't be trusted. But he was the only one who could control the house elf. And over the past three weeks, he'd shown an increasing tolerance for her presence.

She realized she was still dressed from the night before, and let out a sigh of relief.

"Come in," she called back.

The door opened a few inches, Malfoy's slate eyes peering in before swinging the door fully open.

"I thought I heard your voice raised. Are you well?" His voice was utterly unperturbed, and she felt a flicker of annoyance. "Was your sleep adequate?"

"Oh, just wonderful. I love waking up in a strange place and having no idea how I got there." She sighed and rubbed her temples. "What am I doing here? Last thing I remember, I was reading a book in your library."

"And that is where you decided to sleep for the night. It was my belief that you might prefer a _bed_ , particularly considering how you complain about your sleeping arrangements at Grimmauld Place, but next time perhaps I should leave you to spend the night upon a wooden desk," he replied tartly. "To think, I even penned a letter to your lapdog Potter telling him you'd fallen asleep here."

"Okay, stop." She let out a sigh. "I suppose I should thank you. I mean, I slept better than I have in ages, so I'm not complaining about _that."_

Malfoy frowned. "Then why were you raising your voice a few moments ago? A nightmare?"

She rolled her eyes. "No. That house-elf. I woke up to him at the end of my bed, calling me disgusting and alleging that I've put you under a spell. Then he wouldn't go until I grabbed my wand!"

Lucius's brow furrowed. "Did he indeed?"

A long, awkward silence stretched between them for a moment, Malfoy staring blankly at the end of the bed, and Hermione waiting for what he would do next. Suddenly, Malfoy nodded sharply.

"If you'll excuse me, Miss Granger. I have matters to attend to."

Without any mention of her duties that day, or of Draco, he walked off. Hermione was left alone in the room, still feeling disoriented by Malfoy's unpredictable turns of behaviour.

* * *

When Hermione opened the door to Grimmauld Place at 4:30, her mind was still lingering on the fact she hadn't seen Malfoy or Stultus since the morning. She was so distracted she didn't notice Harry, standing near the door, until he launched into a tirade.

"Honestly, Hermione, what the hell's going on? I haven't seen you since yesterday morning when you traipsed off to Malfoy's place for work. Then I get an owl from him at eight last night, telling me you'd fallen asleep in his _library_ and he didn't see fit to wake you. You don't even come back here in the morning..." Harry ran a hand through his hair. "And last week! You basically said you'd eaten there when I tried to get you to have some supper. You apparently take tea there. I mean, this is _Malfoy_. I'm afraid he's up to something... nefarious, you know?"

"Good afternoon to you too, Harry," she replied tartly, shrugging off her coat and kicking off her shoes.

At Harry's openly worried expression, her irritation melted away.

"Look, I'm sorry to have worried you, but it's true. Maybe Malfoy _does_ have some underhanded plot he's working on, but if so I don't know what it is. I really _did_ fall asleep while researching in his library, and he just got the house-elf to put me in a spare bedroom. I had some crackers and cheese and fruit and a drink there after a long day."

"I don't like it." Harry frowned. "Malfoy doesn't just _do nice things_ for the hell of it. He's utterly self-interested. He wants something from you, I'm sure of it. Hermione, are you sure that he's not trying to trap you into something?"

Hermione felt the colour rising in her cheeks. Malfoy hadn't needed to _trap_ her at all; she'd been an enthusiastic participant in every sordid moment. She hated how close she was to outright _lying_ to Harry. For a moment, she wanted to tell him - admit to the sordid shagging sessions she'd had with the master of Malfoy Manor.

But then she thought back to all that had passed between them - between Harry and Malfoy; between herself and Harry; between herself and Malfoy; and she simply couldn't.

She shrugged. "I'm not sure of anything anymore."

* * *

She had stormed into his study three days later with a handful of papers and a stream of words he didn't understand. _Porphyria. Abnormal body chemistry interacted with his Dreamless Sleep. Acted like a Draught of the Living Death. I can reverse the potion but that's not enough. Muggle medicine to manage the illness. More advanced than the Wizarding understanding of the disease._

What he _did_ understand was that Granger not only believed she had a cure for Draco's coma, she also had some Mudblood-based way to control his madness. How Muggles could be more advanced than Wizards, he didn't question. His mind was simply too overwhelmed with hope, disbelief, and a peculiar, warm gratitude toward Hermione Granger. Draco's unexpected, dirty-blooded saviour.

Malfoy did not think his reaction through logically. He simply felt pleased with her, and in turn, wished to reward her. As she was still pacing about, talking about something called phlebotomy and hydroxychloroquinine pills, he grabbed her waist and pulled her small body against his. His mouth caught hers, his tongue seeking entrance. She squeaked in surprise and dropped the papers, but didn't try to free herself. In fact, she began to eagerly reciprocate, her tongue tracing his teeth and her hands gripping his shoulders.

When he pulled away, she looked confused.

He yanked down her stretchy muggle trousers and she went silent. His finger slipped against her knickers, still disappointingly dry, and he pressed his palm against the fabric, rocking the rough lace against her clit. She let out a startled yelp, but pushed her pussy back against his hand. Her wide brown eyes stared at him as he gestured to the chaise longue, this time allowing her to sit for a moment before he pushed her back against it and yanked down her knickers.

"What a pretty cunt you have," he murmured. "I haven't really looked at it, as I've been so busy shoving my cock up it. So pink - and you wax it so fascinatingly."

She blinked at him, then finally muttered, "You know, this is pretty standard for Muggle..."

He didn't want to hear the rest of what she was going to say, so he leaned forward and tentatively pressed his mouth to her pink slit. When he swept his tongue over her bead, she bucked so hard he had to jump back to avoid a possible broken nose. Ignoring her apologetic frown, he crawled back up her prone body, and went in once again. Even barely touching his tongue to her wet pussy, she reacted dramatically. Her fingers gouged the jacquard upholstery. The keening wail he'd elicited echoed through the empty old manor. She began to twist and buck beneath his mouth, but he held her firmly in place. The noise, the musky-lilac smell, the feel of warm, firm thighs beneath his fingers - all of it was overwhelming.

He felt himself hardening beneath his trousers, and suppressed the urge to mount her.

"Malfoy, please, please," she breathed. "Please, Malfoy."

"Please _what_ , Granger?" He expected her to beg for release, but she surprised him.

"Inside me," she wailed, "Please. I want to be filled when I come."

Her words inflamed him; he felt utterly as if he could barely control his own hands, and his movements were instinctive and rushed as he fumbled for the fastening on his trousers. A moment later, he was atop her. In their desperation, they were positioned awkwardly on the narrow chaise; one of her legs on the ground, the other raised over the sofa back; his own hands gripping the armrest above her head for balance, and his body nestled between her thighs. Were he in his right mind, he would've thought the scene distasteful. Common, even.

The throbbing ache in his cock and his racing heartbeat and the single, raging thought in his mind didn't care. With one thrust, easy through the wetness, he was within her. Her wild eyes, panting breaths, and loud, unrestrained moans were now right beneath him, face to face.

As he drew back and slammed back in, he felt overwhelming _relief_.

* * *

Hermione tried to focus on the intense pleasure ricocheting through her body, rather than how _peculiar_ the whole scene was - lying on a chaise longue in a Regency sitting room, parchments scattered everywhere, a platinum head between her legs, and Malfoy introducing her to her first experience of being eaten out.

It was nothing like she'd imagined. She'd thought it would be embarrassing, uncomfortable, perhaps a bit like masturbating. It wasn't. It was absolutely visceral. And unlike her occasional fumblings with Viktor or Ron, there was no hesitation or distaste on Malfoy's part. He seemed positively enthusiastic. He'd simply dove onto her, and was now sucking and licking with abandon.

Her rational mind seemed to have fled her. Her fingers dug into upholstery. She wanted to move against him, but Malfoy had firmly pinned her thighs to the sofa and she could do little but moan and wail. She could feel the tension growing within her - closer, closer - and yet despite the intensity of the experience, she felt empty. She felt embarrassed by what she wanted, so she blurted out what she wanted as quickly as she could.

"Malfoy, please, please," she breathed. "Please, Malfoy."

He lifted his head up, looking utterly self-satisfied - _oh God_ , he looked sexy - and smirked. "Please _what_ , Granger?"

"Inside me," she wailed, "Please. I want to be filled when I come."

The smirk vanished, replaced with wide eyes and a dropped jaw. Hermione was about to blurt out apologies when in one remarkably coordinated move considering the narrow space, he simultaneously shoved down his trousers and launched himself up the chaise. Suddenly, his thick, blunt length was inside her. Despite his size, she was so wet that he slid easily all the way in. It felt like completion, and she let out a contented whimper when he began to thrust.

This was the first time they had fucked face to face, she realized. The experience was far more intimate. His lips were wet with her juices. She could see the faintest shadow of facial hair over his chin. His long hair had fallen from its clasp and tickled her throat. He'd shoved up her dress and bra and was kneading her breasts with one hand. The soft grunts escaping his lips were louder, more intimate, next to her ear.

She wanted more. "Oh, God, harder."

His only reaction was a silkily lifted eyebrow and an increase in his tempo. Using the armrest for leverage, he slammed into her so hard that it _hurt_. Embarrassingly, being taken so aggressively turned her on even more. A long, high pitched moan escaped her throat, and Malfoy sped up in response. She looked downward, and she gasped to see his thick rod, shining with their combined juices, sliding in and out of her.

She was already so aroused that it only took a half-dozen thrusts before she shattered. She thrashed beneath him, her body clamping down on his member deep inside her.

"Oh, fuck," he swore.

She whimpered - it was too much, far too much - as he sped up with several jerky, harsh flicks of his hips. Then suddenly he froze; she felt her pussy filled with his hot seed; and he flopped - sweaty and panting - atop her chest. His face was pressed into her shoulder, hiding his expression.

Experimentally, she touched the ends of his long, blonde hair. He didn't protest, surprisingly.

"Nobody's ever tried that on me before," she murmured. "The oral, I mean."

He raised his head, lifting one golden eyebrow in disbelief. "What sort of men have you been seeing?"

"Teenage boys," she replied after a moment. "I hope I wasn't too... ah... enthusiastic. I noticed you had to hold me down at one point."

He let out a pained groan and sat up between her legs. His shirt was rumpled, his trousers to his knees, his undergarments smeared with bodily fluids. He sighed and looked away.

"Enthusiasm for sex, Miss Granger, is rarely a turn off." He re-tied his cravat and stood to adjust his trousers. "And if you hadn't noticed, I hardly mind the idea of restraining you. In fact, I find the idea... rather appealing, should you ever find yourself curious."

He met her gaze at that point, and she flushed at the overtly sexual conversation, and the fact that she was still splayed out on his furniture, dripping his juices and skin marked with ruddy handprints where he'd squeezed her thighs.

She was distracted by her thoughts at the realization he was grooming himself in her presece. It seemed so personal; more intimate even than having sex with him. Glancing into a small lozenge-paned mirror on the wall, he adjusted his cravat, wiped his face, and used a spell to smooth his hair. Two minutes later, and he looked as unruffled as he had when she'd walked in - though the scent of sex hung heavily in the air.

"I interrupted you when you arrived," he said blandly, pouring himself a shot of armagnac. "What were you going to tell me? You believe you've discovered a cure?"

"You want me to tell you _now?_ Like _this_?" She stood and glanced down at her uncovered body.

"I don't see why not. I'm not protesting the view," he replied blandly as he leered at her tits. "Drink?"

"No, thank you." She attempted to sound collected, even though she'd just been shagged to oblivion and Malfoy was staring at her like a particularly delectable sweet. "Once Dreamless Sleep enters the bloodstream, its magical efficacy is normally spent. Draco, however, took it when he'd had an attack of porphyria - a genetic illness. It's been known to Muggles for centuries. Draco would've had a buildup porphyrins in the bloodstream. The porphyrins are magically active substances that are similar to Abelsonite."

"The potions ingredient?" Malfoy asked.

"Exactly." Hermione replied, pacing around the room. "Draco's own body acted like a potions ingredient. Crushed Abelsonite is a pretty obscure potions ingredient, and it's only used for draughts to induce comas. That's what I think happened to Draco. The Dreamless Sleep combined with his own abnormal body chemistry to create an incredibly powerful potion that sent him into a coma."

Malfoy stared at her a moment with wide eyes. It was an expression that seemed utterly alien on his normally controlled facade. He seemed to catch himself, clearing his throat and looking down into his glass.

"The treatment?"

"That's the part you won't like. The cure requires Muggle hospitalization. There's no cure for porphyria, just management. They may need to put medicine directly into his bloodstream. And once his porphyrin levels go down, he should naturally wake up."

Malfoy stared back at her, his voice quiet. "I know about Muggle hospitals. They're barbaric. Poking holes, cauterizing wounds with red-hot pokers, sawing off limbs and sewing up people like they're dolls."

"Don't be foolish. Maybe a hundred years ago, but not now." At his incredulous frown, she crossed her arms. "I'll even _bring_ you to one. It's the cusp of the twenty first century. Frankly, when I came into the Wizarding world, I thought the magical clinics looked utterly unsanitary compared to Muggle London. And honestly, this is the _only_ way I know to help him."

"No, Miss Granger. Call me a fool if you wish, but you must continue to try to find an alternative." He set his jaw. "I will not allow my son to become the subject of some... torturers masquerading as healers."

"I don't _have_ another cure," she hissed. "He could die."

"I have made my decision. And my son is _not_ going to die. You'll find a cure. A _proper_ one. I have every confidence."

"Unfortunately, I don't," she snapped back at him. "This could work _now_."

"I said that my decision is made. Now if you'd kindly _drop_ the subject."

He stared resolutely into the fire. Hermione knew - from his viewpoint - that the conversation had ended. Frustration flared through her, but she clenched her fists and jaw, and did not put her thoughts into words. _How foolish I've been to think he'd overcome his discrimination_ , she thought. With jerky, angry movements, she slipped back into her clothing.

As she stormed toward the door, she heard his soft voice from his armchair.

"You'll return tomorrow."

"Of course," she spat back, "After all, we have a _contract_."

She swept out without looking backward.

Malfoy felt frozen a moment, mulling over his decision for a moment. But no - regrets were wasteful. Miss Granger would figure out a proper means of healing Draco. One that wouldn't leave him scarred, mauled and tainted. Still, self-doubt crept nauseously into Lucius's belly. He once again eyed the now-empty doorway, and he poured himself another drink. Though she hadn't shouted or cried, he had a creeping sense that Miss Granger had been seething beneath her collected facade.

What if she didn't return? No; she was right, she had a contract. And another terrifying, but quickly quashed thought... _what if she was right and he dies?_

He swallowed his armagnac in one deep swig, and poured another, and another after that, until the bottle was drained and he could no longer think.

* * *

Hermione was _angry._ She stormed into Grimmauld Place, her expression warning off anyone who might try to speak to her.

After all the times that she and Malfoy spoken to one another, shared tea and food together, and the embarrassing sexual encounters they'd _mostly_ spent their time together doing, she'd actually thought he'd changed - if only a little.

Of course, he _hadn't_. Clearly, he'd been using her. He still viewed Muggles as primitive and repellant. He was still a hateful bigot, and she needed to avoid him.

Luckily, she had the bedroom to herself. She paced around the three cramped beds, trying to think instead of seeing red. Her heart plodded in her chest, and panicked rage coursed through her at the mental image of Lucius Malfoy's too-perfect face, carved into an aristocratic sneer.

She felt like a marionette, pulled to and fro in Malfoy's all-encompassing grip. It couldn't go on this way - allowing him to think that he was in control and her superior. From now on, she'd set boundaries. She'd just be his employee. She'd comply to the strictest blackletter of their contract, arriving at eight a.m. and leaving promptly at four. Let _him_ come to her. Let _him_ beg, if he wanted to speak to her. Let _him_ realize how utterly wrong he was about _everything,_ but particularly Draco's health.

Still, there was a nagging unease in the back of her mind - _this isn't going to work_. But her pacing was interrupted by the arrival of the Patil sisters, and Seamus's insistent cajoling to come downstairs to join in the poker tourney.

The next day, when Hermione was at the Manor, she'd carefully avoided him. She'd shut the door when she was in Draco's room or the library. And he hadn't approached her. She hadn't heard his voice. Hadn't heard his footsteps. The house-elf - inexplicably, a new one named Twiggy - passed along no messages from the master.

Four interminable more days passed. Her hearing seemed to grow more attentive each day. She breathed deeply, sometimes trying to catch a whiff of his coriander cologne. Her anger was tinged with something else - irritation. Irritation at how he distracted her thoughts. Irritation that he didn't realize how _utterly_ wrong he was, how _he_ should apologize to her.

Still, she wasn't about to seek him out, even if he were just a few doors away. No matter how often she might think of him. He had burned that bridge.


	6. Moving Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unwanted guest leaves, and a new one arrives; and just because Hermione is angry doesn't mean that she'll be able to stay away from temptation. Warning again for smut.

Lucius Malfoy rarely felt so off-kilter. He had drained three bottles of armagnac in a week, a sixfold increase to his usual consumption. Though he reasonably _should_ have been pleased by Miss Granger's disappearance from his daily life, his thoughts lingered constantly upon what she was doing - and more foolishly, listening for her voice or footsteps in the overwhelming silence, or breathing in the ghostly sweet perfume that lingered in her absence. She shut doors behind her; she did not seek him out. He told himself repeatedly that this was _perfectly_ acceptable to him. He told himself that his _in fact_ made his life easier.

But... in addition to Miss Granger's absence, Draco was not healing; in fact, he seemed to have grown gaunter and paler over the past week. Petulantly, he wanted to blame this on Miss Granger's failure. It was unfair impulse. He knew that even if Miss Granger were angry at him, she would never derelict her duties.

And now, this. He stared down at the letter he'd just received from Menzies.

_Dear Mr. Malfoy,_

_You wished to be apprised of your wife's return to Britain. It is my understanding that as of last Tuesday, Madam Malfoy has returned by portkey and has been residing at Lestrange Park. None of my information suggests she has left the grounds since returning to England._

_If you wish me to act upon this information in any fashion, please advise forthwith. I shall be in touch if there are further developments._

_Regards,_

_Marmaduke J. Menzies Private Investigations, Ltd._

He resisted the urge to crumple the parchment and toss it into the grate. Giving in to such destructive urges was both wasteful and childish. Still, anger warred with horror in his belly, and he shoved the letter haphazardly into his pocket. Narcissa had returned to Britain - presumably now healed - and yet she hadn't returned. It was one thing to surreptitiously take a lover. It was quite another to seclude yourself in his love nest while your son was nearby _dying_.

Never in his lifetime would Lucius have thought Narcissa capable of such utter betrayal. 

His stomach suddenly seized and he lurched from his study to the nearest lavatory, only _just_ bursting through the door in time. The contents of his stomach came up liquid acid, his stomach muscles seizing painfully.

And then, his morning got even worse. Miss Granger found him like that - doubled over and filthy over the loo.

"Malfoy?" her soft voice cut through his throbbing headache. "You're sick."

He tamped down the urge to whip around and shout at her, to release the anger he felt at being found in such a vulnerable position. Of course, he'd been careless - he'd caused his own hangover; he'd left the door to the loo open; he'd been loud enough to attract her attention.

He lifted his head from the latrine to search for the nearest hand towel. Inelegantly, he wiped his face and tossed the dirty cloth onto the floor.

"Well spotted, Miss Granger," he croaked.

She was silent an agonizingly long minute before murmuring, "Let's get you to bed, then."

He was going to point out that the new house-elf - whatever its name was - could far more easily assist him. But he'd been without human contact, not even a single word of conversation, for a week now. Worse, he desired her attention. He knew his desperation was both disgusting and pathetic, but he did not protest when she reached for his arm to help him to his feet. A dizzy spell overcame him, and he had to steady himself against the sink. He felt her grip upon his arm and was surprised by the strength behind it.

As he leaned into her, he could smell lilacs and freshly washed hair. In his distraction, he didn't notice the route she'd propelled him along, and he was seized with panic when they arrived at the base of the staircase.

"The study is fine, Miss Granger," he muttered.

"You really intend to sleep on that little tiny chaise amongst all that tempting liquor?" She sighed. "Don't be ridiculous."

He felt his cheeks warm, an instinctive reaction he thought he'd lost long ago. He'd hoped she'd chalk up his nausea to a flu or food poisoning, but she'd accurately diagnosed him as hung over.

As he staggered up the stairs, his mind raced. He did _not_ want Miss Granger in his bedroom. It would be yet another defense breached, another unintended intimacy. He gestured to the Flower Room, which was nearby and felt like neutral territory.

"I'm not shagging you, especially not in _this_ state," she snapped.

"I wasn't _asking_ you to, Miss Granger." He searched for an excuse. "It's close by and convenient."

"You're constantly difficult, you know that? Do I need to call Stultus for help?"

He huffed, "I got rid of Stultus for his disrespect."

" _Got rid of him?_ You didn't kill him, did you?" she stared at him with vague horror.

"Don't be foolish. House elves aren't cheap. I sent him to our Scottish house and brought Twiggy here."

"Well, it's not as if there's _any_ adequate house-elf welfare legislation in this country, so it's not that foolish," she snapped. "Do I need to call _Twiggy_ for help then?"

"Twiggy is well aware that she is only allowed into my bedchamber on Tuesday mornings," he replied imperiously, even as he moved toward the right corridor.

Hermione shook her head. "Why would you have a bedroom cleaning schedule for your house-elf, anyhow?"

He lifted an eyebrow. "Clearly, you've never owned one. They're notorious for appearing at the most inopportune moments. I haven't allowed a house-elf into my room as they please since I was in third year."

"Why..." Hermione began, but her voice died away and a deep blush suffused her cheeks. "Oh!"

He felt a flicker of amusement at her naive embarrassment. While utterly mortifying at age fourteen, at least he now found some humour from being caught wanking by the house-elf.

"They're not allowed into my study without permission, either." He paused. "At least, not recently."

If possible, her face went even redder, and her dark eyes darted nervously to meet his. Though he thought he'd hidden his amusement, he clearly _hadn't_ , because her nervousness vanished and her pink lips pulled into a small, conspiratorial smile. Some of that angry tension that had strung tautly between them vanished, and he questioned why he'd been so stubborn about seeking her out this past week.

His anxiety about allowing her into his bedchamber vanished, and he suddenly wondered what she'd think of it.

She released his arm to open the door, but when she turned back to help him, he waved her off.

"I'm fine."

She glanced skeptically back at him, but he swept past her and into his bedchamber before she could comment. With a flick of his wrist, the curtains and shutters snapped open, flooding the room with sunshine. From the corner of his eye, he watched Miss Granger. Her quick eyes moved about the room; the armchair seated next to a table full of ledgers and letters; a walnut valet with tomorrow's clothing neatly hung upon it; a dresser containing combs, potions, cologne, and hair ties; and finally - as if she were too nervous to look at it - the centuries-old French sleigh bed.

"Does it pass your examination, Miss Granger?" he asked, swigging back a hangover and a tooth-cleansing potion without a thought.

She had the manners to blush. "I wasn't trying to pry. I just imagined the master bedroom would be... oh, I don't know... more over the top?"

"This isn't the master. I don't use it." He sensed the unasked questions hanging in the air, and shifted the subject. "Not all of my ancestors had as little taste as the Malfoy who created the flower room, Miss Granger. Most of the Manor is quite elegant. This room has the distinct advantage of having the most comfortable bed."

Malfoy didn't expect any response from her. He'd thought she might be embarrassed by talk of beds - she was, in some ways, a sweetly naive little thing. But instead of blushing and stammering, she hurried toward the bed and flopped down atop the silk coverlet, arms outstretched. It was an innocent response, and yet, there she was in one of her short muggle dresses, tanned legs hanging over _his_ bed, hair splayed out like a halo. The sight was surprisingly erotic and he felt his groin twitch.

"Hmm. I don't know. The Flower Room is pretty good," she said, moving as if to get up.

He felt like a panther as he swept across the bed and stood over her, physically blocking her from standing. His knees were pressed against the side of the bed, boxing her legs in between his. In this position, he dominated; she lay submissive, like a gift laying out before him. He was perfectly positioned to simply pin her down and fuck her. His arousal - a vague feeling until now - roared into life and his cock stood at attention.

"Perhaps you need to test the mattress further," he muttered, reaching for the hem of her panties.

"What are you doing? I'm still angry with you," she said. "Besides, you're not well. You should rest."

"This will make me feel better," he muttered, letting the scrap of purple drop to the parquet floor. "You've denied me for a week."

"Denied you?" she protested. "Did you forget your behaviour? Besides, I'm here for Draco, if you recall..."

"And now me as well," he interrupted, slipping a finger to her pink folds. "You'll deny me no longer, Miss Granger."

She gawped at him, and his mind warred with two worries - that she would tell him _no_ , or she would say something that implied _attachment_. They were polar opposites, of course, but each with their own horrifying consequences.

But his action distracted her from speaking. She clearly _wanted_ him. His fingers felt slippery and sopping, and he hadn't so much as kissed her. He easily found the engorged bud, and with a swirl of his finger, she dissolved into moans. Her eyes fluttered shut, and he knelt down between her legs. His free hand snaked up her dress, pushing it upward so he could shove aside her bra and palm her breasts. She twisted and panted under his ministrations. It was so easy; so electric. But also too much. Her smell, her noises, her sweaty cheeks - they flamed an equally strong reaction within him, and soon he was driven to sate his own needs.

He withdrew his hands from her, and her eyes fluttered open, irritated and questioning. But she understood when they moved to his placket and out sprung his painfully-engorged cock. Her eyes shut again.

"Yessss," she groaned, the first comprehensible word she'd uttered since he'd touched her. "I've needed this."

"Yet you avoided me." He leaned down over her, dropping his mouth to her ear before hissing, "You will _not_ avoid me again."

Her eyes flew open, full of indignance, just as he thrust into her. She gasped.

"You bastard. Don't think you can order me around," she managed to pant out. "You aren't in control."

He pulled out slowly, savouring the tightness, the warmth, the wetness that dulled his thoughts. "No, I'm not."

Her gaze grew puzzled, but he didn't elaborate. He shouldn't have blurted such things out. He'd learned, however, that Miss Granger caused weaknesses in his armour that he'd never before had. She was dangerous.

He felt fingernails slip up his undershirt, digging into his shoulder blades, the sharp pain spurring him on. His thoughts had distracted him from the task at hand, and he realized he'd only been halfheartedly moving in and out of her. Focusing his concentration, he pinned her palms to the bed, shifted his angle slightly upward, and began to pound her slender body. At the sudden change in angle and intensity, she gasped and writhed. There was little more she could do while he held her down tightly with his hands and cock.

"Harder," she moaned. "Deeper."

"I might cause pain," he hissed, knowing from experience that his size and enthusiasm could end an encounter.

"Oh, God, it's not necessarily a bad thing." She moaned, and at his moment of hesitation, she hissed, "Fuck, just _take_ _me_ , Lucius."

At his own name spilt so erotically from her lips, his reservations crumbled. He threw her legs up to her shoulders and leaned his weight upon the backs of her legs. Nearing fifty, he still maintained an athletic physique, and he now let loose all the power he could as he rammed into her. Far from recoiling, she began to wail in pleasure. He too felt as if his animal nature had begun to take over. As he rutted against her, as he watched her pink folds stretch in a tight ring around his cock, he began to grunt in rhythm.

He was lost. Her body tightened around him and he pinned her legs to her shoulders, restraining her in the throes of orgasm. He had only one thought, and that was to come inside her. He could not allow her to uncouple from him; he continued to thrust through her tight, fluttering walls. A moment later, his own completion ripped through him, pouring hot waves deep within her body.

When he regained his senses, he knew he _should_ feel horrified, for a multitude of reasons. He did not. Miss Granger lay beneath him, her eyes sleepy and bleary. The soft skin beneath him was smudged pink where he'd grabbed her, and he felt an uncharacteristic bloom of protectiveness.

"Did I hurt you?" he heard his own voice asking.

"Only in the best way," she replied, stretching her neck. "I like it, Malfoy."

_Malfoy_. It sounded so stilted, considering how vulnerable they had just been with one another. Miss Granger was here in his bedroom. She'd allowed him to restrain her, enter her, and drown her in his seed. She'd wailed his given name in pleasure only seconds earlier.

"Perhaps - at least in private - you might call me Lucius."

He sighed as he slipped out of her and rolled off to the side. Her expression was unnervingly inscrutable as she stared at him, and he wondered momentarily if this was how _he_ appeared to others.

"I suppose, then, you'll have to call me Hermione."

He rolled it around his mind before he allowed it into his mouth. _Hermione._ Not _Miss Granger. Hermione._

"You're tired, Hermione," he finally said.

"So are you, _Lucius_ ," she retorted.

"Yes," he muttered distractedly.

He purposely avoided thinking about what he did next. Carefully, he pulled his undergarments back up his legs and tossed aside his dress shirt. Now clad only in his briefs and singlet, he pulled down the coverlet and slipped into bed. With a wave of his hands, he snapped shut the curtains.

"Stay," he muttered as he pulled down the coverlet on the left side of the bed. "After all, it's the most comfortable bed in the house."

He felt her tense for a moment, and could almost see her uncertainty even though the room was now dark.

She whispered. "I suppose it is."

Tentatively, she shifted, crawled up the bed, and slipped under the covers beside him. She was careful not to touch him, which he found laughable given what they'd just done. He didn't have time to consider upon it, because sleep overcame him almost immediately.

* * *

A soft knock on the door roused him from Lucius's most peaceful sleep in weeks. He nearly swore when he heard the contemptible little house elf's voice. But Miss Granger... _Hermione_... was curled up beside him, breathing rhythmically, and he didn't want to wake her. Her breasts were pressed up against his back, and he could feel the prickle of her hair poking into his shoulders.

The house elf spoke through the door again. "Master? Someone be here in the sitting room."

He moved tentatively to the edge of the bed, and flinched when she whimpered. He'd woken her.

"Hmm?" she mumbled.

"Go back to sleep," he whispered.

A moment later, her breathing was once again rhythmic, and he felt a foreign warmth at the realization. Normally, he would have lit the lamps, but wanting her to sleep, he felt his way through the dark room until he located his dressing gown. Menzies would probably be shocked at his unkempt appearance, but Lucius thought it unrealistic to find an entire outfit in the dark.

"Twiggy is sorry, Master, but most insistent was that..."

"It's fine. I'll deal with Menzies quickly. Your task is to look after Miss Granger. You have my permission to enter my bedchamber, should Miss Granger need anything."

Twiggy nodded and vanished. Lucius wondered idly why Twiggy would send Menzies into the hideously-floral sitting room; usually he would meet with Lucius in the smaller gentleman's smoking room. Still, he thought little about it. He would simply chastise Menzies for showing up unannounced, and send the investigator on his way.

He stepped through the gold-trimmed doors into the sitting room, and froze at the figure seated on the sofa.

"Good afternoon, Darling." Narcissa took a sip of tea. "Five o'clock and still in your robe? Looks like I've come home just in time."


	7. Primitive and Illogical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione flees from the Manor and unexpectedly shares confidences with a friend, while Lucius seems completely unable to control himself and his life as he once did. This chapter has minimal smut and just a little bit indecent behaviour from our messy paramours. Some vague references to homosexuality, though honestly if that bothers you I'm not sure why you're even on this site. 
> 
> Kudos/ comments are always awesome and thanks for reading.

Hermione awoke to distant shouting. For a moment, she felt disorientated. The room was pitch-black. The bedding was soft cotton. The air smelled of torch smoke, cologne, lilac perfume and masculine sweat. As she shifted, tenderness flared between her legs.

And then she remembered. She was in Malfoy's bedroom. She vaguely remembered him crawling out of bed, whispering to her to go back to sleep. He'd almost sounded affectionate. It had been unnerving, particularly after the single-minded, possessive intensity with which he'd fucked her... and then he'd told her to sleep in his bed _next to him_. This wasn't the tightly-shelled Malfoy she knew. This wasn't the man she'd been angrily avoiding for a week.

"Miss Granger?"

She squeaked in surprise at the small house-elf's voice reverberating through the darkness. Shamefully, she didn't know where her wand was; when he'd removed her dress, the wand had been in her pocket, and she had been too aroused to think logically and grab it.

"Can you open the windows Twiggy?" she whispered. "I can't see."

"Of course, Madam," Twiggy replied, her deference a stark contrast to Stultus. "Master tells Twiggy she must look after Miss Granger and do as she says."

Twiggy snapped open the curtains. The sunset had set the Wiltshire horizon aflame in violent reds and oranges. Hermione wondered how late it was and whether Harry was at home worrying. And what about Draco? Though this house-elf seemed fairly competent at caring for him, Hermione still tried to stay with him most of the day. Sleeping with Malfoy had distracted her from other priorities, and she felt a flicker of guilt.

She slipped into her clothes and stuck her feet into her thong sandals. Her thighs were disgustingly filthy and her skin sticky with dried sweat, but she figured she could take a quick bath in the Flower Room, check on Draco, and then bid Lucius good-bye.

Once the door opened, the shouting became infinitely louder, though Hermione couldn't make out the words. She'd seen Lucius angry, but his anger was usually brittle and controlled. To hear him raise his voice was atypical.

The response to Lucius made her blood run cold. It was a woman's voice. And she recognized it.

"Twiggy?" Her own voice sounded strangely calm. "Who's down there with Lucius?"

Twiggy smiled blithely. "That be Madam Malfoy. She come back an hour ago, Twiggy think. You want to say hello?"

Narcissa Malfoy. She'd just fucked Narcissa Malfoy's husband, had slept in what was presumably their bed, and now _his wife_ had returned home. What could they be arguing about, if not Lucius's infidelity? Guilt and the fear of being caught flooded her. Hermione had to take three deep breaths to suppress the flood of adrenaline that was telling her to flee.

She turned to the house-elf. "No, thank you, Twiggy. I've got someone waiting for me at home. He'll worry with me being so late. I need to leave as soon as possible and without anyone seeing me. Do you know how I might do that?"

"Oh, yes. Twiggy be helping! Twiggy bring you to gate with elf magic!"

Hermione sighed with relief as the little house-elf stepped forward and clasped her hand. She wouldn't get caught... at least not today. She wouldn't be killed by a jealous Narcissa Malfoy... or worse, a defensive and groveling Lucius trying to make amends with an angry wife. With a tugging sensation, Lucius's bedroom melted away.

* * *

Narcissa had gained weight. It suited her; when under stress - when _with him_ , Lucius noted - she avoided eating and surreptitiously smoked slim French cigarettes in the gazebo. He pretended he didn't know. She didn't tell him. They both ignored her hollow cheeks and the scent of Gauloises on her clothes.

He suspected that she was far more content with Roddy Lestrange than him. The thought didn't pain him as it once had. Perhaps it was now subsumed by his seething anger.

She smirked and toyed with her Delft teacup. That red-lipsticked smirk had once been a sign of their private conspiracy of two, when they both worked toward the same goals. Now he found it enraging. He wanted to throw that bloody teacup against the wall beside her head and scream at her for abandoning both him and Draco at their lowest.

"You think you can just waltz back in here after a month, Narcissa?" he snapped.

"As I'm the mistress of this house, yes." She cocked her head. "I had to take the waters at Aurenia. For the illness."

"And the waters in St. Tropez, and Nice, and Chamonix too, I suppose? And what was Roddy treating, other than his utter lack of personality and perhaps obesity?"

Narcissa paused. "I... I don't remember being in St. Tropez."

"Perhaps you don't. But I'm quite certain you remember _some_. You were cognizant enough to introduce yourself as Madam Lestrange all across the continent, and Roddy was playing along with it - while you were draining the Malfoy vaults, I might add. Usually it's customary to get a divorce _first._ "

He hated how his voice raised, how virulent he sounded, how emotionally compromised. This wasn't the way a Malfoy was meant to behave. Control was the hallmark of his family. Yet he had difficulty tamping down his roiling rage and betrayal.

Narcissa stood, her brow furrowed. "You're different, Lucius. It's never been like this before when I've returned. You know I don't make wise choices when I have my episodes. I thought we'd come to an unspoken agreement."

He surveyed her now. How had he once found her so coolly elegant? Looking at her now, he felt only contempt. She could casually dismiss her cyclical infidelity as something he had tacitly, silently accepted. She hadn't even _mentioned_ Draco, who now lay dying in the next room over.

Was he a hypocrite? Over the past month, he had regularly drank himself to oblivion and bedded Hermione Granger. Over the past month he'd broken his marital vows without a second thought. He didn't feel guilty. He felt only anger and despair, with rare moments of relief that Granger - _Hermione_ \- had provided.

"It's different now." He managed to school his voice into some semblance of blandness. "I cannot believe that you left your son at a time like this."

Narcissa's eyes glazed in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"You abandoned your dying son to traipse across Europe with Bella's widower. I accepted your European liaisons with Roddy in the past as a symptom of your illness... but leaving Draco is beyond the pale."

Narcissa froze, and horror dawned on her face. "Draco. I have to see him. Who's looking after him?"

"You abandoned any right to know that, Narcissa, when you left him to nearly choke on his own spittle in the middle of the night. I've managed. I have someone else helping me."

"Who? I'm his mother and have a right..." Narcissa interrupted, her hands clenched and her expression taut.

"You show up here unannounced, expecting everything to remain unchanged. Well it _has_ changed, Narcissa. Everything's changed! You disgust me." Lucius felt his ire rising again against his better judgment. "Go back to Roddy before I do or say something I regret."

"I want to see Draco!" Narcissa demanded, her hands wringing together. "I didn't _know_ , Lucius, I didn't _remember_."

"I don't care," he barked, "Get out!"

She surveyed him a moment, as if judging whether he was serious. Finally, she nodded. A more easily cowed woman might've run. Narcissa rearranged her skirt, shot him one last cold glare, and walked slowly and elegantly out the door.

Lucius suppressed the urge to smash one of Narcissa's porcelain swan collection into the fire. Instead, he called for the house-elf.

"Yes, Master?" Twiggy asked with a small bow.

"Ask Miss Granger if she will stay for supper, once she's awake." He focused intently on smoothing down his shirt, though it was unrumpled.

"Missy Granger not here. She go away very fast and very quiet when she hear Madam Malfoy is back."

Lucius's anger, a deep throb in the back of his head, grew. His wife had returned. And the one bright spot over the past month - Miss Granger - had fled. He suddenly felt as if he'd lost the reins completely. It would not do.

* * *

Hermione wrapped her wet hair in a towel and slipped into a singlet and cat-print pyjama shorts. Grimmauld Place was surprisingly empty, and she was thankful for it. When she walked toward the stairs, the corridor was dark and silent. The silence and the hot bath had lowered her anxiety to a manageable level. She'd _almost_ convinced herself that Narcissa or Lucius Malfoy wouldn't murder her.

"Hey, Hermione. Haven't seen you around much lately."

She jumped at Seamus's voice behind her.

"You startled me." She smiled. "I didn't realize anyone was here."

"A bit skittish, eh?" He frowned for a moment, then gestured to the glass doors at the end of the corridor. "I was about to have a fag and a beer. Join me outside?"

She nodded and pushed open the doors. Darkness had descended over the city, but the streetlights washed everything in a pale orange glow. Seamus - the only smoker in the house - had set up an overturned crate and a plastic stool on the small patio. An old coffee tin lay on the ground for ashes. Seamus arrived a moment later with two open bottles of bitter. She took one with a nod of thanks and perched atop the crate. He pulled a pack of menthols out of his pocket and offered her one. She shook her head, and he lit up, leaning against the wall.

"Me ma lives in a council house the size of Harry's bedroom. Here I am living in a mansion in the heart of London." He shook his head. "Life has some funny twists. You're working for Malfoy. I'm working for the British government when half my relatives are Sinn Fein. Strange, where we end up, eh?"

Hermione breathed in the cool, beer-and-tobacco scented air and considered her answer for a moment.

"We've spent so long at war, maybe it's all right to just live as life takes us for a while." Hermione shrugged. "My parents are dentists. When I was a child, I thought I'd attend a decent public school, go to university like them, maybe take a degree in dentistry or medicine or nursing."

"Me gran is a nurse," Seamus interrupted with a grin. "Me older brother, too."

"I didn't know that." Hermione murmured, glancing over as a motorcycle zipped past the tall metal fence. "This is nice. I haven't done _nothing_ in a long time."

"Ah, y'gotta become lazy like me." Seamus winked, then grew serious. "Malfoy seems to need you odd hours, eh? It was near six when you got back today. Everyone's worried he's treatin' you poorly."

Did Malfoy treat her poorly? It really depended on one's definition. He paid her promptly, allowed her liberty to work as she pleased, assisted in her research as needed. Yet running parallel to the Malfoy-her-boss was the other half - Malfoy, Lucius her... what? Lover? Internally, she scoffed. Malfoy wasn't the sort of man you'd describe as a _lover_ , but there was no real word for _acquaintance whom you regularly have possessive fuck sessions with_. Was it being treated poorly to wake up covered in bruises and bodily fluids? She didn't think so, but her friends likely _would_.

Hermione's face flamed and she searched for ways to answer honestly.

"He's as good of a person to me as I think he can be right now." At his puzzled glance, she added, "It's complicated."

Seamus looked as if he wanted to ask more questions, and Hermione searched her mind for some distraction to turn Seamus to another discussion topic. She came up empty. Seamus reached his arm out to toss his cigarette end into the coffee can. Hermione glanced toward the glowing butt, and noticed scraps of half-burned parchment curled up inside the old coffee can.

_Know this can never work out... you must understand that I truly care about her..._

She recognized the scratchy writing as Charlie Weasley's. When she looked up, Seamus's face had gone white. His eyes were round, and his hand trembled. Immediately she understood. She wasn't the only one in this house keeping secrets about their sex life.

"Oh, Seamus," she whispered.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" Seamus asked after a moment, his pale fingers twisting around his crucifix necklace.

"What's there to say?" she asked softly.

Seamus's voice was taut. "That it's wrong and unethical and disgusting..."

She reached for his hand. "No, no, and no. Believe me, I am in _no_ position to judge. Everyone has secrets."

He looked puzzled, and opened his mouth to speak. Before he could, he was interrupted by an icy, quiet voice.

"Miss Granger, just what do you think you are doing, drunk and alone in your lingerie with this... Irishman?"

Hermione's eyes fluttered shut and her cheeks flooded with warmth. When she finally overcame her embarrassment enough to look around, she realized several facts in short order. Lucius was standing at the fence not six feet away, his posture tense, jaw rigid, and eyes fixed resolutely on Seamus. Seamus's jaw had dropped and his pale eyes darted between Lucius and Hermione.

Seamus _knew_.

"Holy Mary... that's quite a secret, Hermione, darlin'," Seamus murmured.

"What did you just say? Did he just call you _Darling?_ " Lucius snapped. "Come here. I was _not_ finished speaking with you at the Manor."

"Go home, Lucius. I'm not drunk, I'm not in lingerie, and I'm _not_ getting into a confrontation with you and your wife this evening," she replied, feeling brave from behind a fence.

She saw his hand clamp harder around his cane. He reached for the gate, turned the handle, and it popped open. Framed by the wrought-iron fence, he looked like an avenging Viking, his long hair fluttering in the breeze and his fingers white with anger.

"Seamus... what the..." she whispered.

"I left it unlocked, I'm sorry." Seamus frowned at the open gate. "How did he get through the wards? Anyone unwanted isn't supposed to be able to get through."

Hermione didn't say anything. Truthfully, Lucius wasn't _unwanted_ , at least not by her.

Seamus's voice was reedy. "He seems a bit aggro."

Lucius stepped forward, looking more like himself than she'd seen in months, and towered over them. His hair was immaculate. His cravat swirled in an elegant knot at the throat of his bespoke waistcoat. He held his cane tightly, his whitened knuckles betraying his anger. His gray eyes surveyed them coldly.

Hermione nearly laughed at how bizarre the scene had become - a faceoff between her married Pureblood-supremacist lover, her closeted friend, and herself, all played out very publicly on a four-metre garden in the heart of London.

"Leave us," Malfoy hissed at Seamus.

"I don't think that's a good idea..." Seamus replied, his eyes flickering nervously between Hermione and Lucius.

"Do you think for one moment that you could compete with me? Win a duel?" He stepped menacingly toward Seamus and slipped the head of his cane upward, revealing a threatening few inches of his wand. "If so, you're mistaken."

Hermione felt a flare of indignant anger at the suggestion that she was simply some object to be fought over. Seamus's eyes widened, and he muttered something that sounded suspiciously like _I'll be damned._

"Compete?" Hermione snapped. "Don't be stupid, Malfoy. You're acting like a chauvinistic troglodyte. Seamus is _not_ interested in me."

"Really, she's not my type," Seamus blurted out, nodding hurriedly. "The very opposite of what I go for, if you catch my drift."

Lucius's expression softened in realization, his anger dissipating.

"You can go, Seamus." Hermione sighed. At his dubious frown, she turned to Malfoy. "You'll behave yourself, won't you?"

"I have no desire to be rearrested," he snapped. "But I won't ask a third time - leave us, Irishman."

Still looking torn, Seamus nodded and ducked back into the house, shutting the doors firmly behind him. Lucius stared at her silently a moment.

"You could've just told me he preferred men and saved me from making a fool of myself," he snapped.

"That's not the point. It doesn't matter if he prefers men. I can spend time with whoever I want, whenever I want, Malfoy."

His jaw tightened. "Just how many men are you... spending time with other than myself?"

She scoffed. "That's what you came here for? To try and slut-shame me? Ugh. Go home to your wife, Lucius."

She turned to leave, and felt a firm hand clamp on her forearm. Hermione turned and stared at where his pale fingers touched her tanned wrist. The whole scene felt surreal - Malfoy was supposed to feel revulsion for Muggles. But this - this was possessiveness, primitive and illogical, the very opposite of revulsion. He towered over her, his silver eyes blazing. His scent, heady and masculine, hung in the air. She felt embarrassed at the flicker of arousal that curled through her belly.

He stepped closer, so they were only inches apart. She whimpered.

It was their mutual undoing, as if a match had been thrown into a pile of kindling. Suddenly, she was shoved against the brick wall, the scratching pain only vaguely registering in her mind. His hands were at her breasts, his thumbs flicking at her hardened nipples while the grip around her chest simultaneously pinned her in place. Her hands slithered down his back, searching for any sliver of bare skin. Soft lips crashed down on hers, and his tongue plunged into her mouth. His hardened cock thrust up against her, the layers of wool and flannel a frustrating barrier between them. Dewy wetness smeared her thighs. Madness had overtaken her; that was the only explanation why she was seriously considering publicly fucking Lucius Malfoy against the wall of Harry Potter's house.

They both pulled back for air a moment later. Still holding her against the wall, Lucius gazed deeply into her eyes as he tried to catch his breath.

"You needn't have fled," he panted. "I told Narcissa to go."

She froze. Lucius had told his wife to leave their shared home. Why? Because he was afraid of getting caught? Because he preferred Hermione's company? Or perhaps Hermione's presence was irrelevant, and he would've kicked Narcissa out regardless?

She briefly considered asking him, but Malfoy was only willing to talk about his personal life on his own terms. Besides, she told herself, it shouldn't matter to her why he'd sent Narcissa away. This was just fucking, she reminded herself acidly. They weren't friends. They weren't dating. There was no _future_ to it, despite his moments of possessiveness and affection.

"What?" Malfoy murmured, breath hot against her ear. "You've tensed."

"It doesn't matter."

Her voice was muffled as she pressed her face to his neck, savouring the scent of him and the hot rhythm of his heartbeat against her cheek. She suddenly realized the intimacy of the gesture and expected him to pull away. He didn't.

"Come back with me."

"Malfoy..." She sighed deeply. "We shouldn't. This is dangerous for both of us. And I'm still unhappy with you about last week."

She saw a flash of green light through the living room window and heard heavy footsteps.

"Hermione?" Harry's voice carried through the house. "You here?"

A triumphant smirk flitted over Malfoy's thin lips.

"Surely, Miss Granger, it's more dangerous if Potter finds you here with me... out of breath and unkempt."

She stared up at his swollen, reddened mouth and the wisps of hair that had escaped from their leather hair tie. The thought that she had made perfectly-coiffed Lucius Malfoy so publically disheveled sent a jolt of arousal through her.

"You're not looking so kempt yourself," she muttered.

"I'd imagine not, given your enthusiasm. Now, shall we to Malfoy Manor?"

After a moment's hesitation, she nodded, feeling too embarrassed to put her desire into words. His arm snaked around her waist, and Grimmauld Place melted away as they apparated.


	8. A Problem for Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucius continues to surprise Hermione, even if he doesn't intend to. Narcissa remains a thorn in Lucius's side, and confronts Hermione. And finally, we conclude with a little light smut. 
> 
> Also, kudos and comments encourage me to write and post, hint hint. :)

Hermione expected him to drag her to his bed and fuck her senseless once they returned to the Manor. Instead, he peeled off his coat, hung hers up, and gestured for her to follow him into his study. Once in its cozy confines, he set the fire in the grate, and loosened his shirt and cravat.

"What do you want to eat?"

She was startled by the question. This wasn't _her_ house. Wasn't she a guest at best, an employee at worst? He eyed her expectantly. 

"I'm not picky," she replied. "Though I'm not fond of octopus."

He stared at her as if she were insane. "Surely you don't think I'd serve you octopus. Do mu... muggles eat that?"

She smiled wryly, trying to imagine Lucius at a trendy Greek or Japanese restaurant in London. "Some, yes. Some even eat it raw."

He narrowed his eyes, as if debating whether she was joking. "Certainly not. I'll leave it to the house-elves to decide. Twiggy, supper for two please."

He reached under his sideboard and with elegant, ballet-like movements, uncorked a bottle of wine and poured two glasses.

"White burgundy," he said.

"Chardonnay, as muggles call it nowadays." He shot her a sour glance at her volunteered information.

Once settled in the chair next to her, he remained silent a moment. She didn't speak, but her nervousness kept rising, and finally she could no longer keep quiet.

"She won't be back tonight, will she?"

Lucius refilled his glass, already through his first. "Narcissa? No. Not tonight, anyhow."

"Is she recovered?" Hermione asked.

He replied swiftly and sharply. "I don't particularly want to talk about my wife to my... to you."

"Draco..." she began.

"Not that, either," he cut her off sharply, draining his glass.

"I'm still angry with you about the hospital treatment." 

"I know."

She pursed her lips and readied for an argument, but his next words startled her into silence.

"I've become involved in a Ministry project you might approve of." He refilled his glass. "A regulation requiring mandatory house-elf welfare inspections."

She gawped at him a moment. Her own disapproval of house-elf working conditions was near legendary, widely mocked in more conservative papers and the subject of disapproving glances when she shared her opinion in polite company. It had not made her friends, and worse, it had done absolutely nothing for house-elves.

Lucius Malfoy, conservative in every conceivable belief, had never expressed any concern for house-elf welfare. He was exactly the sort to write a mocking op-ed in the _Wizarding National_. 

Finally she asked, "Is there something in it for you?"

He smirked and let his eyes linger on her legs. "Surely you can come to your own conclusions."

Her brain felt as if it had shifted into neutral as she considered what he'd said. Surely he wasn't implying that he'd done this for _her_. Was he? But what else would he get out of it? It wasn't a popular cause that would rehabilitate his image, like war orphans, or support dogs for the wounded. And it certainly wasn't a topic he felt any passion for, of _that_ she was certain. But that circled back to the original question - for her? And if so, why?

This worrying train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of supper. It appeared suddenly on two gold-rimmed plates, accompanied by a white linen napkin and cutlery. She eyed the plate - a rather bland piece of turbot, boiled potato and peas - wondering if she had the coordination to eat it without spilling on her lap.

He glanced at her with uncharacteristic uncertainty. "We can remove to the dining room if you find this too informal..."

She shook her head. "No, it's not that. My parents ad I ate microwaved ready meals in front of the telly often enough."

He stared at her blankly, and she smiled in reminiscence. "Muggle things. Funny how those little moments are what you remember."

"Are they dead?" He eyed her warily, as if expecting an unpredictable reaction to the question. 

"No, they're in another country, with no memory I ever existed, and no way to reverse it." She felt a lump in her throat and a flicker of anger, knowing that _he_ had been one of the reasons she was a de facto orphan. " _I_ did it... to keep them safe."

He abruptly set aside his half-eaten plate and downed his wine, staring into the grate rather than toward her. After a long, tense moment, he spoke. "You were right to do so."

He was broodily silent for several minutes before reaching over and clasping her hand. His eyes still remained on the crackling flames. He said nothing, and Hermione was so startled by it that she could do little but stare down at his pale fingers intertwined with her tanned ones, his nails perfectly manicured, his soft fingers tracing circles against her palm.

"Will you come to bed with me tonight, Hermione?" he asked, sounding a million miles away.

Hermione's mind felt pulled a dozen directions, thinking of her parents, of his past as a Death Eater, of his house-elf project and his gentle caresses. She couldn't reconcile any of it, not logically, and she decided she didn't want to. She'd always been the one acting on logic and thoughtfulness, and for once, she just wanted to do what her feelings called out for.

"Okay," she whispered.

He brought her hand to his lips, and barely audibly, murmured, "Thank you."

* * *

Hermione woke when Malfoy stirred beside her. He crawled out of bed and dressed before her with no embarrassment at his nakedness. She watched, fascinated by the process of turning Lucius, the imperfect and rumpled man, into the flawless superhuman he projected to the outside. He seemed oblivious to her fascination, talking as he pulled on his clothing.

"I must attend to business today. I have been derelict since Draco's illness." He paused. "Ask the house-elf if you require anything."

His crisp white shirt he tucked into a pair of black wool trousers. After considering his closet, he finally decided on a black cravat paired with dark pinstriped vest and black fur-trimmed black coat. Finally, he spread Sleekeazy's onto a comb, dragged it through his platinum hair, and tied it back with a silver clasp.

As he walked to the door, he paused. "Perhaps I'll see you later."

He infused so much innuendo into the five words that she blushed. With a dip of the head, he left. She rubbed her face, her mind full of unanswered questions. Why had he been so angry when he retrieved her from Grimmauld Place? What was... _this_? What were his ultimate intentions? Had he told Narcissa about their affair?

Ensconced in his warm bad together, she hadn't dared ask. Now she'd missed her chance.

"Master asks Twiggy to look after Missy this morning." Twiggy popped into existence next to the bed, bearing a steaming mug of coffee. "Missy need any other things too?"

"No, thank you." She took a languid sip. "This is good. I'll be looking after Draco if you need me."

She stretched and rolled out of bed. She cringed when she realized she only had her pajamas from yesterday to wear; how to explain _that_ to Harry when she returned home?

That, however, was a problem for later. For now, she just had to worry about Draco.

* * *

After two utterly unremarkable hours watching Draco's limp form, she nipped out to the loo. Draco was skeletal. He no longer moved, or coughed or spasmed. He simply lay there, a shakily-breathing corpse. Magical cures had reached their limit.

As Hermione walked down the corridor, she heard the unfamiliar clip of high heels on marble. She spun around.

Narcissa Malfoy was stalking toward her, pointing her wand directly at Hermione's chest.

Hermione's heartbeat began to race. _What to do?_ Her own wand was sitting on Draco's bedside table - how had she become so lax over the past few weeks? - and Narcissa was rounding on her like a falcon on a mouse.

This was it. Narcissa Malfoy was here to exact revenge for sleeping with Lucius. She was going to die here on the floor of Malfoy Manor. Images of her torture at Bellatrix's hand flashed before her eyes, and her throat constricted in panic. Narcissa halted a few feet in front of Hermione, her pale eyes blazing, her jaw set into an enraged frown.

"What are you doing here?" Narcissa hissed, her wand aimed squarely at Hermione's chest. "Answer me before I call the Aurors!"

Hermione's brain seemed to pause for a moment, trying to figure out what Narcissa had just asked.

"Pardon me?" she asked, feeling stupid even as the words left her mouth.

"I know you're no novice at break-ins, but this time you're caught," Narcissa hissed. "All I want to know is _why_ you're here. But perhaps I'll have to dip into my husband's supply of Veritaserum?"

Hermione suddenly realized that Narcissa knew _nothing_. She didn't know Hermione was sleeping with her husband. She didn't even know that Hermione was working in the Manor. Narcissa assumed Hermione was trespassing.

"I haven't broken in. L... Mister Malfoy hired me to work here." Hermione held up her hands in surrender. "He didn't tell you I'm looking after Draco?"

Narcissa scoffed. "Lucius... hired _you?_ "

"It's not as if there were others he could choose from," Hermione muttered, her cheeks blazing at the contempt dripping from Narcissa's voice.

Narcissa didn't believe her; she could see it in her hard-set eyes. Her slender, pale fingers tightened around her wand. Suddenly, Hermione had an idea.

Hermione blurted out, "Ask your house-elves!"

Narcissa lifted one golden eyebrow, and the grip on her wand loosened slightly.

"Stultus?" she called out.

Twiggy appeared. "Stultus sent away by Master, Mistress. Twiggy help."

Hermione bit her lip hard enough that she thought it might bleed, hoping that Narcissa wouldn't ask _why_ Stultus was sent away. Or worse, if she asked _why_ Hermione was in the Manor, and Twiggy provided a detailed explanation of her activities with Malfoy _Senior_.

"Miss Granger says that Lucius has given her access to the Manor. Is this true?"

"Yes, yes, Madam, for 'most a month. Missy be so helpful, knowing always how to make Master feel better."

Hermione's eyes widened - _Master_ feel better? But it seemed Narcissa didn't notice the slip.

"Hermione Granger is now one of the servants at Malfoy Manor?" Narcissa paused to give Hermione a once-over. "Looking after the Young Master?"

Hermione bristled at being called servant. She was a researcher. Wasn't she? Or was this how Lucius Malfoy truly saw her - some subservient woman paid to be a pleasant diversion on lonely nights?

She was snapped out of her morose thoughts by Narcissa's shrill voice. "Answer me."

Twiggy looked puzzled. "Yes, Missy help look after Young Master. She look up things, try to cure Young Master."

Narcissa finally, blessedly seemed satisfied by this answer. She slowly lowered her arm, though she kept her wand firmly in her grip.

"Then show Draco to me."

Her voice brooked no argument, and Hermione simply nodded and hurried back toward Draco's convalescing room. Narcissa, all confidence and disdain, swept past her as they entered the room. But once she spotted her son, she halted. A pained gasp escaped her throat. Her pale hands flew to her mouth, darting nervously like hummingbirds. She ran to his bedside and began to stroke his hollow cheeks.

"Oh, Draco. What have they done to you, my little one?" She hiccuped, and her voice sounded thick with tears. "I'm so sorry."

Hermione suddenly felt as if she should retreat. This was too intimate; she should _not_ be watching ice-queen Narcissa Malfoy fall to pieces over her dying child. Silently, Hermione stepped out of the room, whispering to Twiggy to bring Madam Malfoy some scotch and a handkerchief.

* * *

"Lucius allows you free rein in here?"

Narcissa's voice had returned to its usual frostiness. It echoed coldly through the library.

"I'm paid to research how to cure his condition, so yes," Hermione replied, her voice braver than she felt.

" _Unsuccessfully_ research," Narcissa snapped, swigging the last from her scotch glass. "Your little Auror friends haven't tracked down who cursed him. I imagine they haven't even bothered investigating."

Hermione felt herself blush at her contempt, but bit back a rude retort. After all, she reminded herself, Narcissa's child was dying and she had just come through a period of mental illness. Hermione - her enemy - had just been witness to her coming utterly unglued.

And, a little voice reminded her, Narcissa had _cause_ for anger, even if she didn't _know_ it.

She tried to keep her voice calm as she conversed with the woman whose husband she was fucking. The woman whose child she'd failed to save. Guilt roiled nauseatingly in her stomach.

"He wasn't cursed." Hermione pretended to read her book rather than face Narcissa. "He has a genetic illness - I gather the magical community calls it the Purple Water Curse, but to Muggles it's an illness called Porphyria. It caused an adverse reaction to a potion he took and resulted in a coma."

Narcissa was quiet a moment. "You figured this out yourself?"

"With the help of your sister's particularly loose-tongued house-elf. Stultus, that is."

When Narcissa finally spoke, her voice was bitter. "Ah. So you've learned it's the _Black_ family's shame that Draco's inherited. I'm surprised Lucius didn't tell you so nobody thought it might be _him_ at fault."

The two women lapsed into silence.

"Well, you've done better than St. Mungo's, but still not enough to find a cure." Narcissa swallowed audibly. "For all your brilliance, he'll still die. You're just as useless as the healers."

At her acid words, Hermione's anger finally flared. She stood and spun around to face Narcissa. "Actually, I _did_ find a possible treatment. But it involves going to a _Muggle_ hospital, and being treated by _Muggle_ doctors - who, I might say, found a treatment for Porphyria _decades_ ago - and so Lucius won't even _consider_ giving his consent for the treatment."

Narcissa's pale eyes widened. Her angry sneer vanished, and she eyed Hermione with what almost seemed like respect.

"I've heard about Muggle hospitals..." Narcissa's cheeks paled. "It's the only way you think will work?"

"The only one I could come up with. Or anyone else, so far."

Narcissa's eyes stared pensively toward the long stained-glass windows. After a moment, she nodded.

"Then you'll try it on me," Narcissa replied tersely. "And if it works... then we'll try it on Draco."

It took Hermione a moment to overcome her shock. Narcissa remained unruffled, waiting with an impatient frown for Hermione's response.

"It'll take time to make arrangements," Hermione stumbled over her words.

"Fine. Make your arrangements. I'll remain with Draco for the rest of the day." She turned away, and Hermione recognized it as a dismissal.

Hermione glanced toward Lucius's study door at the end of the corridor. "I'm supposed to be here until four. I don't think erm... Mister Malfoy would approve."

"Don't be foolish." Narcissa turned, signalling the end of the conversation. "I'm still mistress of this house, and I've dismissed you. Obviously Lucius would prefer our son to be cared for by his mother rather than some Muggleborn hired hand. You may go."

Hermione reddened in embarrassment - _Muggleborn hired hand_ indeed - but recognized that this wasn't the time for an argument. Narcissa had offered to be a guinea pig. She didn't want to burn that bridge. And so she left with a silent prayer that Lucius would understand. 

* * *

Lucius felt mentally drained. It had been too long since he had last truly been in the thick of things at the Ministry, and he was playing catch-up. He had met with six different "old friends," for a drink, each one updating him on the various power players in the Ministry and their various secrets. Information was power - the power to bribe, the power to blackmail. His self-imposed exile in Malfoy Manor had left him out of the loop. Few of the Ministry power players were in his pocket anymore. And, if he were to accomplish this small project with the house-elves to placate Miss Granger, he _did_ need the assistance of his contacts.

The tipsy haze from six glasses of burgundy left him feeling vaguely cynical and maudlin. As he stepped through the threshold to the Manor, he felt an excitable anticipation at seeing Miss Granger once again. Everything about her was fresh and hopeful and the very opposite of cynical. Miss Granger would, he imagined, be horrified at the idea of blackmailing someone.

Perhaps he'd tell her he'd been blackmailing old Rosier today; watch her eyes flash and her face redden and her voice get stroppy as she told him how _terribly bad_ he was. He'd agree, of course, as only someone terribly badly behaved would snap the straps on that slutty little singlet she'd worn last night, and pinch and twist her nipples until she begged for him to...

"Lucius? Are you all right? Why are you standing in the foyer... _smiling_ at the floor?"

He nearly choked at the sound of Narcissa's voice echoing through the foyer. His smile instantly vanished, replaced with a suspicious frown.

"What are you doing here?" he snapped. "I told you to go."

"I understand you were angry, Lucius." Her voice was cajoling. "But I thought you'd have calmed down by now. I'm back. I'm mostly well again. I'm here to look after you and Draco again."

He felt a flare of anger at her presumption.

"Neither of us need you, Narcissa."

He suddenly had a horrified thought; had Narcissa come upon Miss Granger? And if so, where? The bath? Or worse, his bed? His eyes darted toward the corridor, then back to Narcissa. She seemed calm enough, so it wasn't likely she'd discovered Miss Granger's _other_ position in the Malfoy household. Still, he stalked toward Draco's bedroom, ignoring his wife as she followed behind him.

"I got rid of her. Honestly, there's no reason for her to be here. I'm back, and once you stop being so petulant, we can work together again for Draco's sake. Really, Lucius, your standards have become so low. Did you see what she was wearing? It looked like something you'd wear to sleep." Narcissa's voice was plaintive behind him. "I suppose I could expect no less from a Mudblood who's traded herself between those two boys for years."

His anger flared.

He spun around, enunciating each word carefully. "I do not _care_ whether she's dressed in a maid's uniform, a bathing costume or a bathrobe, Narcissa. She's supposed to be finding a cure for Draco, and if dressing in a hippogriff costume assists her in doing so, then she can feel free."

Narcissa cocked her head, scrutinizing him. After a moment, she tittered in amusement. "Oh, Lucius, look at how low you've fallen. You're actually _fond_ of the girl. Surely you weren't so pathetic and alone that you've grown tolerant of that self-involved little Mudblood."

For one of the only times in his life, Lucius totally lost control. He saw red. His heart raced in his chest and he began to unsheath his wand from his cane. It was only the flash of fear across Narcissa's delicate features that stopped him.

Inside, he reeled, feeling as if the world was spinning. He'd drank too much. His cuckolding wife was _laughing_ at him in their foyer. His lover was - God knows where, but Narcissa was implying that she was out fucking various young men. His child was dying in the next room over.

For once, his life was out of control, and not only could he do _nothing_ , he had largely authored his own chaos.

"Lucius..." Narcissa's voice was low and frightened.

He re-sheathed his wand, turned, and left. For her sake, he was glad she didn't follow him.

* * *

Hermione wrapped her hands around her teacup, watching Seamus's stunned reaction across the dining table. His wide eyes and dropped jaw were _not_ promising.

Seamus's finally responded. "Let me get this straight. You want me to arrange with me Nan to have Narcissa Malfoy admitted to hospital - a _muggle_ hospital - for treatment? Have you lost the plot?"

"There's no magical cure, Seamus. And she's sick and wants to get better. And if it works, she's willing to let the doctors try on Draco. Isn't that worth a shot?"

"Are ye sure she's not just taking the piss, Hermione? I mean... this is Narcissa Malfoy, blood supremacist." At her pleading look, he sighed. "Fine. I'll ask. But my Nan's not to be left alone with her. Those Malfoys are terrifying. I don't know how you stand it... or perhaps that's part of the appeal."

"You're terrible." She smacked him playfully on the arm, then grew serious. "We shouldn't talk about _that_."

He eyed her speculatively. "I'm around, if you want a sympathetic ear."

She nodded, but now wasn't the time. Thinking too hard about Lucius left her feeling vaguely nauseous. She _knew_ that Lucius had done terrible things. She knew he was devious and manipulative and untrustworthy. She knew he still thought muggleborns lesser, and felt bubbling anger at how he had dismissed her cure for Draco without a second thought.

Yet somehow, her mind neatly compartmentalized that, and had created a separate Lucius Malfoy, the one that she took brandy with, discussed paintings with, and slept with - literally now; she had slept in his house, in his room, in his very _bed_.

She needed a distraction. 

"I think I'll head upstairs and take advantage of the quiet with a book."

Seamus nodded. This time of day, no-one else was around. Seamus, still recovering from an injury at the Final Battle, was the only one not rebuilding. Grimmauld Place, even empty, was never silent. The house creaked and groaned and so she paid little attention to the sounds of shifting floorboards as she settled onto her bed with a copy of _Pride and Prejudice_. 

A sharp knock at the bedroom door a few minutes later made her jump in surprise.

"Come in, Seamus. I'm decent."

Except it _wasn't_ Seamus. The door swung open, and in stepped Lucius Malfoy. His lean, sartorially impeccable frame looked out of place in the ten-foot-long little room.

Hermione leapt to her feet. "Lucius? How did you get in here? There are Aurors around, for goodness' sake."

"Always assuming nefarious intent. The Irishman let me in," he interrupted, eyes flicking around the room. " _This_ is where you live? It's as I imagined a Weasley might live. A hovel."

" _Don't_." She narrowed her eyes in warning. "Half of Wizarding Britain is destroyed and _your people_ burnt down my home. So, unless you have an immediate solution, I'd stop right there."

He picked up a plastic piggy bank sitting on Padma's area of the dresser, then set it back with a distasteful frown. His eyes lit upon the dresses hung to dry in one corner, a pair of trainers kicked off at the end of one bed, and the minuscule space between each mattress on the floor. Though she sensed he wanted to, he made no comment.

"You could stay at the Manor," he said, playing with the piggy bank once again.

He threw the suggestion out with utter nonchalance and it took Hermione a moment to realize that he'd just suggested that she _move in with him_. Of course, that couldn't have been his intent. Could it?

Finally, she spluttered out, "Lucius, you don't even _like_ me."

He looked up from the dresser and lifted one eyebrow. "You know that's untrue."

At his accusatory gaze, Hermione felt a tightness in her chest that felt simultaneously like affection and panic. Lucius Malfoy simply didn't _admit_ to feelings. He didn't bare such vulnerability.

And yet here he was, in her bedroom, telling her to her face that he _liked her._ That he thought it a good idea to share his _home_ with her. When had this 180 happened? She was still Muggleborn, still from the other side of the war...

"I'm not sure you know what you're suggesting." She muttered.

"I'm _suggesting_ nothing more than you do as you've already done more than once, which is take one of the bedrooms while you're working at my home." At her scoff, he paused, then continued. "I find you more than tolerable, and you seem mutually inclined. It conveniences us both."

She mulled this over. It was _logical_ , and yet it still seemed so wrong after their sordid shared history. Besides which, he was her employer, and in a position of power over her. But under his silver-blue eyes, pinning her down from the doorway, she could feel her heartbeat pick up and her cheeks begin to blaze. She had to look away simply to avoid the confusing, inescapable temptation.

"Why are you here, Lucius?"

"I came to check on your welfare, as my wife told me earlier that she quote _got rid of you_. I suspected she meant dismissed, but I felt obligated to ensure she hadn't murdered you in my absence."

Hermione smiled at his almost-joke, and he stepped closer to her. His hand moved to her hair, two fingers sliding around a wayward brown curl, his knuckles grazing her cheek and neck and leaving fire in their wake. She whimpered, and his head moved to her neck, lips ghosting the sensitive skin near her throat. Her hands curled under his arms, pulling him tightly against her.

She barely heard him murmur. "I suppose I _can't_ keep you at the Manor. She's there again, even though I told her to go."

She tensed, and he responded by tugging her hair and kissing her neck, then upwards, to nip the shell of her ear. His hands slipped under her shirt, plucking at her bare nipples. She rocked against him instinctively, her body seeking out his manhood.

He groaned, "I want to fuck you."

"Lucius, we can't. This is Harry's house," she murmured.

A devious smile flickered over his lips. "I know. I can only imagine the future joy I'll take in knowing I fucked Potter's best friend illicitly under his own roof."

"You're a mess," she muttered, distracted as he twisted her nipple roughly. "Oh, _God_ , Lucius... Seamus will hear us."

"What does it matter? The Irishman already knows whom you are sleeping with," he replied, using one hand to push down her flannel pyjama bottoms. "I need this. I need..."

His voice trailed off, and Lucius paused, his pensive gaze meeting hers. She perched on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his mouth. He responded hungrily, needily finally claim her mouth. She responded immediately, tasting red wine on his tongue as they parried. Gently, he pushed her down to the bed, her trousers and panties now caught round her ankles. He knelt between her knees, unfastening his fly as she fumbled at his cravat.

After his cock sprang free, he moved his hands to his throat, removing her struggling fingers and loosening the knot for her while she worked at his buttons. Her hands slid up his bare chest, revelling in the firm, smooth planes of his muscles and the faintest trail of hair leading to his navel. When her fingernails caught one of his flat nipples, he let out a hiss and he bucked. His cock rested heavily against her bare thigh. At the feel of it so close, she felt herself grow wet and desperate.

He dragged a finger between her thighs, pausing only to circle her wet clit. She clapped her hand to her mouth to stifle her wail. Kneeling above her, Lucius smirked.

"Positively sopping."

Finally, after what seemed interminably long, he leaned forward, his arms boxing her in, his thick cock jutting proudly forward as he moved ever so slowly toward her entrance. In frustration, she tried to lift herself up to meet him.

"So impatient."

His hands reached beneath her skirt. Pressing his hips forward, his cock lined up with her pussy. She clung to him desperately, arms around his neck and legs wrapped tightly around his waist.

"I'll give you what you're begging for, Miss Granger."

With that, he advanced, filling her as deeply as he could. The sudden fullness made her gasp, as if his generous girth had knocked out a lungful of air. His entire body weight rested upon her and his eyes peered down at her with an unidentifiable intensity. He rested a moment, his cock motionless inside of her tight walls. It was maddening, and she whimpered in frustration. He lifted an eyebrow in amusement, withdrew his cock slowly, and began to relentlessly hammer her into the small mattress. His impressive girth even now required a moment for her body to adjust, but the feeling of being stretched and stuffed thrilled her.

His body smacked her clit with each thrust, the force of it both painful and pleasurable. But her inability to control her own arousal around him; _that_ was a heady, erotic feeling. Deep, canid growls escaped his throat as he sped up, thrusting into her so hard that she actually slid off the mattress, knocking against the wall behind her as he pistoned. If others in the house hadn't known they were lovers before, the thudding against the door, his groans, and her wanton whimpers had just broadcasted it.

"Yes," he mumbled into her throat. "I can... I _will..._ fuck you anywhere, anytime."

It was her undoing. She saw stars and her screech of pleasure reverberated through the tiny bedroom. His grip on her arms tightened, and with one last flurry of thrusts and a grunt, he filled her womb with come.

As he slumped, his body halfway draped over hers as they caught their breath.

Panting, he lifted himself up a few inches and brushed away a lock of hair. "If only you could return to the Manor with me tonight."

His eyes held a wistfulness she hadn't expected to see there.

"I'll still see you tomorrow," she reassured him. "And you have... things to sort out."

She couldn't bring herself to say Narcissa's name, not while his cock was resting inside her body.

"Yes." He continued caressing her hair, making no move to leave her body. "I should go."

"It would be wise."

"I don't particularly wish to." He sighed, and after a long, silent moment, finally rolled off her body.

Without looking back, he slid into his clothing, and slipped out the door.


End file.
